THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


VASCONSELOS 


ROMANCE  OF  THE  NEW  WORLD 


BY  W.   GILMORE  SIMMS,  ESQ. 

AUTHOR  HK  "  THK  -YEMASSKK" "  THE  FORAYKRs" "  KUTAw"  — "  KATHAKlVi 

WALTON" — "RICHARD  HURDIS" — "THE  WIGWAM  AND  THE  CABIN,"  ETC. 


1  Wife,  mother,  child,  I  know  not.     My  affairs 
Are  servanted  to  others.     Though  I  owe 
My  revenge  properly,  my  remission  lies 
in  Volscinii  brt-asts.    Tlnit  we  have  been  familiars. 
Jusrate  forgetfulnese  shall  poison,  rather 
Than   pity  note  how  much." 

CORIOLANUS. 


NEW  YORK: 
W.   J.   WIDDLETON,  PUBLISHER. 

MDCCCLXVm. 


' 


vw 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1856, 

Bv  J.  S.  REDFIELD, 

in  the  Clerk's  O(fic<;  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


SAVAGK  &  M°CKKA,  STEKEOTTPEKS, 

13  Clmmbers  Street,  N   T. 


TO 

DR.  JOHN  W.   FRANCIS, 

OF  NEW  YORK. 

MY  DEAR  SIR: 

I  FOUND  pleasure  in  inscribing  to  you  this  romance  when  it  was 
originally  published  anonymously,  or,  rather,  under  a  nom  de 
plume,  the  selection  of  which  was  due  entirely  to  my  publisher. 
In  now  acknowledging  its  authorship,  at  this  late  period,  and  class- 
ing it  with  the  uniform  editions  of  my  historical  romances,  it  seems 
only  proper  that  I  should,  in  propria  persona,  renew  the  terms 
of  the  anonymous  inscription.  To  you  then,  my  dear  sir,  I  again 
beg  leave  to  commend  it,  with  the  trust  that  its  demerits  will  not, 
in  any  degree,  lessen  the  value  of  this  dedication  in  your  eyes,  as 
my  humble  but  sincere  tribute  to  your  geniality  and  worth  of  mind 
and  character ;  and  as  my  expression  of  thanks  for  the  kindness 
with  which  you  have  always  welcomed  me  to  your  city — to  your 
home  —  where  I  have  usually  met  with  an  affectionate  sympathy 
that  might  well  have  rendered  me  forgetful  of  my  own. 

In  respect  to  "  Vasconselos"  himself,  and  the  plan  and  general 
treatment  of  the  copious  story  which  bears  this  name,  I  need  say 
nothing.  Why  it  was  put  forth  originally  under  a  nom  de  plume, 
is  a  subject  upon  which  I  am  not  called  upon  for  an  explanation. 
It  was  my  whim — my  humor — and  even  a  man's  fancies  and 
caprices,  where  they  tread  upon  no  neighbor's  corns,  are  to  be 
recognised  as  among  his  rights,  under  or  above,  Magna  Charta. 
For  these  humors  I  may  or  may  not  have  had  good  motives  and  a 
sufficient  reason  ;  but  with  these  the  good  world  has  nothing  hi  the 
world  to  do ;  and  "  were  reasons  as  plenty  as  blackberries,"  like 
the  fat  knight,  "  I  will  give  no  man  a  reason  upon  compulsion." 


IV  DEDICATION. 

The  relations  existing  between  the  reader  and  the  author,  do  not 
render  this  essential  to  the  intercourse  between  the  parties.  The 
one  writes,  the  other  reads  —  approvingly  or  not — and  why  either 
employs  himself  in  this  fashion,  is,  I  take  it,  a  matter  upon  which 
neither  need  to  ask  any  unnecessary  questions.  This  book,  at  all 
events,  like  all  other  books,  was,  from  the  first,  required  to  make 
its  way  alone,  irrespective  entirely  of  publisher  and  author. 

Gratuitously,  however,  I  beg  to  mention  one  subordinate  par- 
ticular. The  romance  of  "  Vasconselos"  was  begun,  and  a  score 
of  chapters  written,  several  years  ago,  when  the  subject  was  set 
aside,  to  give  place  to  other  performances  of  more  pressing  claim, 
though  scarcely  of  more  absolute  attraction.  The  work  was  re- 
sumed, finally,  with  as  much  eagerness  as  it  had  been  originally 
begun :  for  the  romantic  history  which  the  subject  involved,  had 
lost  none  of  its  beauty  hi  my  eyes,  and  none  of  its  hold  upon  my 
imagination. 

As  a  drama,  embodying  a  most  curious  and  interesting  progress, 
during  a  singularly-attractive  period  in  our  ante-colonial  history, 
the  invasion  (not  the  conquest — very  far  from  it!)  of  the  empire 
of  the  Floridian  (Apalachian)  savage,  by  Hefnan  de  Soto,  affords 
a  vast  and  fertile  region  for  him  who  works  in  the  provinces  of 
art  in  fiction.  It  is,  in  brief,  one  of  the  most  magnificent  of 
episodes  in  the  history  of  progress  and  discovery  in  the  western 
world.  Your  well-known  tastes,  my  dear  sir,  for  the  material  of  the 
antiquarian ;  your  enthusiasm,  that  so  quickly  expands  to  the  spells 
of  the  art-necromancer ;  will  unite,  I  trust,  to  incline  you  to  the 
work ;  while  I  feel  very  sure  that  your  personal  sympathies  will 
all  contribute  to  secure  for  it  that  degree  of  favor,  from  your  judg- 
ment, which,  possibly,  its  own  merits  would  utterly  fail  to  coerce. 
Very  truly,  my  dear  Dr., 

Your  obliged  friend  and  servant, 

W.  GILMORE  SIMMS. 
WOODLANDS,  S.  C.,       , 
October  20,  1856. 


VASCONSELOS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  Nature  did 

Design  us  to  be  warriors,  and  to  break  through  our  ring,  the  sea,  by  which  we 
arc  environed  ;  and  we,  by  force,  must  fetch  in  what  is  wanting,  or  precious  to  in." 

MASSCNGER. 

IT  is  the  province  of  romance,  even  more  decidedly  than  histo- 
ry, to  recall  the  deeds  and  adventures  of  the  past.  •  It  is  to  fiction 
that  we  must  chiefly  look  for  those  living  and  breathing  creations 
wliich  history  quite  too  unfrequently  deigns  to  summon  to  her 
service.  The  warm  atmosphere  of  present  emotions,  and  pre- 
sent purposes,  belongs  to  the  dramatis  personce  of  art ;  and  she 
is  never  so  well  satisfied  in  showing  us  human  performances,  as 
"when  she  betrays  the  passions  and  affections  by  which  they  were 
dictated  and  endured.  It  is  in  spells  and  possessions  of  this 
character,  that  she  so  commonly  supersedes  the  sterner  muse 
whose  province  she  so  frequently  invades ;  and  her  offices  are 
not  the  less  legitimate,  as  regards  the  truthfulness  of  things  in 
general,  than  are  those  of  history,  because  she  supplies  those  de- 
tails which  the  latter,  unwisely  as  we  think,  but  too  commonly, 
holds  beneath  her  regard.  In  the  work  before  us,  however,  it  is 
our  purpose  to  slight  neither  agency.  AVe  shall  defer  to  each  of 
them,  in  turn,  as  they  may  be  made  to  serve  a  common  purpose. 
They  both  appeal  to  our  assistance,  and  equally  spread  their  pos- 
sessions beneath  our  eyes.  We  shall  employ,  without  violating, 
the  material  resources  of  the  Historian,  while  seeking  to  endow 
1  1 


2  VASCONSELOS. 

them  with  a  vitality  which  fiction  only  can  confer.  It  is  in  pur- 
suit of  this  object  that  we  entreat  the  reader  to  suppose  the  back- 
ward curtain  withdrawn,  unveiling,  if  only  for  a  moment,  the 
aspects  of  a  period  not  so  remote  as  to  lie  wholly  beyond  our 
sympathies.  We  propose  to  look  back  to  that  da  -,r n  of  the  six- 
teenth century  ;  at  all  events,  to  such  a  portion  of  the  historical 
landscape  of  that  period,  as  to  show  us  some  of  the  first  sunny 
gleams  of  European  light  upon  the  savage  dominions  of  the 
Western  Continent.  To  review  this  epoch  is,  in  fact,  to  survey 
the  small  but  impressive  beginnings  of  a  wondrous  drama  in 
which  we,  ourselves,  are  still  living  actors.  The  scene  is  almost 
within  our  grasp.  The  names  of  the  persons  of  our  narrative 
have  not  yet  ceased  from  sounding  in  our  card  ;  and  the  theatre 
of  performance  is  one,  the  boards  of  which,  even  at  this  moment, 
are  echoing  beneath  their  mighty  footsteps.  Our  curiosity  and 
interest  may  well  be  awakened  for  awhile,  to  an  action,  the  fruits 
of  which,  in  some  degree,  are  inuring  to  our  present  benefit. 

It  is  just  three  hundred  years,  since,  in  the  spring  season  of  the 
year  of  Grace,  one  thousand  five  hundred  and  thirty-eight,  the 
infant  city  of  Havana  resounded  with  the  tread  of  one  of  the 
noblest  bodies  of  Spanish  chivalry  that  ever  set  foot  in  our  West- 
ern hemisphere.  That  gay  and  gallant  cavalier,  Hernando  De 
Soto — equally  the  courtier  and  the  soldier — having  won  wealth, 
no  less  than  fame,  under  Francis  Pizarro  in  Peru,  had  now  re- 
solved upon  an  independent  enterprise,  in  another  region,  for  him- 
.  self.  This  enterprise,  in  the  extravagant  expectations  of  that 
period,  promised  to  be  of  even  more  magnificent  results  than 
those  of  his  great  predecessor  and  companion,  already  distin- 
guished by  his  sovereign  as  the  Adelantado  of  Florida. 

Florida — that  wondrous  terra  incognita,  which,  for  so  long  a 
time,  led  the  European  imagination  astray — our  ambitious  cava- 
lier was  now  busied  in  making  the  grandest  preparations  for  its 
conquest.  A  thousand  soldiers,  many  of  whom  were  of  the 
noblest  blood  of  Spain  and  Portugal,  had  assembled  at  Havana 
for  this  enterprise,  swelling  his  train  with  a  strength  which  prom- 
:  tnake  rtain  ;•!!  '>;  Anticipations.  More  than  one  third 


THE  SPANISH  CAVALIER.  3 

of  this  brilliant  force — for  such  it  was,  if  we  compare  it  with  tho 
small  and  ill-organized  bands  which  were  usually  deemed  suffi- 
cient for  the  conflict  with  the  Indian  races  of  America — consisted 
of  cavalry; — belted  knights,  brave  soldiers,  already  practised  in 
the  wars  of  Mexico  and  Peru,  and  young,  hopeful  gallants,  of  high 
blood,  who  had  their  fortunes  to  make,  and  who  had  expended 
the  last  remains  of  their  patrimony  in  the  decorations,  for  this 
enterprise,  of  their  steeds  and  persons.  The  rest  were  stout  bow- 
men and  arquebusiers, — men  of  tough  sinews,  and  mcrals  quite 
as  tough — rude,  sturdy,  desperate,  in  doublets  of  quilted  cotton, 
which  were  only  not  quite  impenetrable  to  an  Indian  arrow. 
Well  might  the  ambitious  spirit  of  Hernando  do  Soto  become  con- 
fident of  success  as  he  reviewed  his  squadrons.  Their  numbers, 
their  manly  vigor,  their  ardent  enthusiasm,  the  splendor  of  their 
armor,  the  admirable  horsemanship  of  his  cavaliers— all  tended 
to  assure  him  of  his  future  triumphs;  neither  Cortez  nor  Pizarro 
had  been  half  so  fortunate  in  such  an  equipment;  and  our  adelan- 
tado,  as  he  surveyed  his  forces,  became  impatient  of  the  hour 
when  he  should  dart  upon  the  conquest  which  he  already  regarded 
as  secure.  Compelled,  however,  to  await  the  tardy  process  of 
getting  ships  and  stores  in  readiness,  he  enlivened  the  interval  of 
delay,  by  exercising  his  gallants  in  all  the  military  and  social 
amusements  in  which  they  took  delight.  While  in  Cuba,  moved 
by  the  policy  of  winning  to  his  banner  the  wealth  and  enterprise 
of  the  island,  he  cheerfully  encouraged  his  knights  and  captains 
to  engage  in  all  those  exercises  of  chivalry  which  could  possibly 
beguile  the  affections  6f  the  people.  The  days  were  accordingly 
consumed  in  tilts  and  tournaments,  bull-fights,  and  other  manly 
sports.  The  nights  were  yielded  to  balls  and  masquerades,  in 
which  the  victor  of  the  morning  but  too  commonly  found  himself 
vanquished  by  the  feeblest  as  well  as  fairest  of  his  foes.  The 
Spaniard,  naturally  a  person  of  parade  and  pomp,  but  too  fre- 
quently sacrificed  the  substance  of  a  life  to  the  shadow  which  his 
fancy  loved.  The  resources  of  an  entire  household  were  some- 
times exhausted  in  making  gay  the  graceful  figure  of  its  young 
cadet.  Beauty  necessarily  strove,  with  equal  ardor,  to  render  her 


4  VASCONSELOS. 

taste  and  treasure  appropriate  auxiliaries  to  her  natural  charms ; 
and  thus  it  was  that  the  brief  interval  during  which  our  adven- 
turers lingered  in  the  island,  after  reaching  it  from  Spain,  passed 
like  a  dream  of  enchantment — one  of  those  fairy  tales  of  pleasure 
that  we  read  of  hi  the  romances  of  Arabia.  But. the  time  was 
fast  approaching  when  these  gay  scenes  of  pleasure — the  relaxa- 
tions and  the  mimicry  of  war — were  to  give  place  to  its  absolute 
and  hard  realities.  The  arrangements  of  our  adelantado  were  at 
length  nearly  completed.  The  ships  had  taken  in  most  of  .their 
Stores,  and  two  of  them  had  been  already  dispatched  with  the 
view  to  a  better  exploration  of  the  coast  of  Florida,  and  in  search 
of  a  fitting  harbor  for  the  descent  of  the  armament.  But  a  few 
weeks — perhaps  daysr— would  elapse,  and  the  little  city  would 
sink  into  its  ancient  dullness  and  repose.  The  sad  thought  of 
separation  from  such  delights  as  had  been  enjoyed'by  all  parties, 
could  only  be  dissipated  by  renewed  efforts  at  enjoyment. 
Gloomy  reflections  were  only  to  be  banished  by  fresh  indul- 
gences ;  and,  duly,  as  the  time  lessened  for  delay,  the  plans  and 
schemes  for  pleasure  were  hurriedly  increased.  The  young  dam- 
sels of  Cuba  put  forth  all  their  attractions  to  arrest  the  fugitive 
hearts  whose  heroic  influences  had  but  too  much  touched  their 
own ;  and  more  than  one  brave  cavalier  was  found  to  hesitate  as 
the  time  drew  nigh  for  his  departure.  His  imagination  painfully 
contrasted  the  pleasures  which  he  enjoyed,  with  the  toils  and 
perils  which  were  in  prospect.  Care  and  anxiety  naturally  fol- 
lowed such  comparisons;  and,  though  the  sports  of  the  island  were 
not  forborne  until  the  armament  had  fairly  taken  its  departure, 
yet  were  they  felt  to  be  more  or  less  deeply  shadowed  by  the 
consciousness  of  the  change  which  was  at  hand.  The  song  was 
growing  much  less  lively  than  at  first — the  tinkle  of  the  guitar 
less  frequent  and  merry — the  voice  of  the  singer  more  subdued, 
while  the  tremulous  sighs  that  mingled  with  its  strain,  and  formed 
its  tender  echo  and  fitting  accompaniment,  bore  evidence  quite  as 
frequently  of  the  really  saddened  fancy,  as  of  the  beguiling  artifice 
of  the  fair  musician. 

The  cares  of  Hernando  de  Soto  were  of  a  different  character. 


HERNAJSTDO   DE   SOTO.  6 

Though  wedded  to  one  of  the  most  lonely  of  all  the  beauties  of 
Spain, — a  princely  dame,  of  family  quity  .as  distinguished  as  her 
charms, — it  was  not  the  tender  passion  which  disturbed  his 
fancies.  Love  satisfied — the  early  gush  of  youthful  ardor  lulled 
to  rest  by  gratification — and  ambition,  that  sterner  passion  which 
more  particularly  inspires  the  bosom  of  the  matured  man, 
superseding  all  others,  except  avarice,  took  possession  of  his  soul, 
swaying  it  with  little  interruption  or  interval.  He  was  only 
anxious  to  be  gone  on  his  path  of  triumph ;  and  every  event 
which  was  calculated  to  delay  his  departure  was  an  additional 
source  of  anxiety,  and  even  bitterness.  Of  these  delays,  the 
causes  were  frequent.  The  very  sports  and  pleasures  which  ho 
encouraged  sometimes  embarrassed  the  toils  of  his  subordinates 
while  diminishing  his  own  resources,  and  the  shows  of  reluctance 
and  hesitation  on  the  part  of  some  of  his  favorite  officers,  together 
with  certain  awkward  domestic  occurrences,  at  which  it  is  only 
necessary  that  we  should  glance  in  passing,  rendered  active  all 
that  was  irritable  and  unamiable  in  his  temper  and  deportment. 
It  is  our  fortune  to  place  him  before  our  readers  at  a  moment 
which  found  him  particularly  ruffled  by  the  misconduct*  of  one 
favorite  cavalier,  and  the  expected  falling  off  of  another.  In  a 
private  chamber  of  the  Governor's  palace, — 'for  he  was  Governor- 
General  of  Cuba,  as  well  as  Adelantado  of  Florida, — he  holds  in 
close  conference  one  of  his  chief  advisers.  Hernando  de  Soto 
was  at  this  time  about  thirty-six  years  of  age,  in  the  very  prime 
of  manhood,  healthy,  vigorous,  accomplished,  graceful  in  carriage, 
commanding  in  deportment ;  above  the  middle  height,  of  a 
countenance  dark  and  animated,  and  with  a  large  and  fiery  eye. 
Of  noble  family,  a  gentleman  "  by  all  four  descents,"  as  was 
the  phrase,  he  had  yet  gone  forth  as  a  mere  adventurer  on  the 
conquest  of  Peru.  There  he  had  proved  his  personal  merits  to 
be  superior  to  those  of  birth  ;  ranking  next  to  Pizarro  himself  in 
the  use  of  lance  and  sword,  and  particularly  distinguished  by  his 
wonderful  excellence  in  horsemanship.  He  might  have  retired  in 
ease  and  affluence  on  the  wealth  and  reputation  which  he  acquired  in 
Peru,  but  that  the  master  passion  of  his  soxd  forbade  the  sacrifice 


6  VASCONSELOS. 

of  endowments,  of  strength,  skill  and  courage,  which  were  too 
precious  and  too  conspicuous  to  be  consigned  to  inactivity.  It 
was  a  fate  that  brought  him  once  more  from  his  native  country 
in  search  of  greater  distinctions  than  he  had  yet  acquired,  in  a 
perilous  strife  with  the  fierce  natives  that  occupied  the  melancholy 
wastes  of  Florida. 

His  companion,  at  the  moment  when  we  seek  to  present  him 
t^tlwreader,  was  a  person  of  a  very  different  mood  and  charac- 
ter^Hkon  Balthazar  de  Alvaro  was  a  cold,  dark,  and  somewhat 
ostentatious  hidalgo, — a  man  of  passions  rather  more  intense 
than  fierce, — subtle,  yet  tenacious, — capable  of  secret  vices,  yet 
equally  capable  of  concealing  them, — a  prudent  man,  in  the 
worldly  signification  of  the  term,  yet  a  profligate  in  every  better 
sense.  But  he  outraged  few  external  proprieties.  He  had  the 
cunning  of  the  serpent,  without  the  dove's  innocence,  and  pos- 
sessed the  art  of  hiding  the  fang  and  venom  from  discovery,  even 
at  the  moment  when  he  most  harbored  and  prepared  both  facul- 
ties for  use.  lie  had  been  for  ten  years  a  resident  of  the  island, 
was  a  man  of  large  estates,  and  larger  enterprises,  with  involve- 
ments more  than  corresponding  with  the  former,  and  such  as 
might  well  be  supposed  to  follow  from  a  somewhat  reckless 
indulgence  of  the  latter.  He  was  now  forty-five  years  of  age, 
and  remarkably  erect  and  vigorous,  had  frequently  distinguished 
himself  in  war  with  the  Indians,  and  it  surprised  nobody  in  that 
day  that  he  should  eagerly  prepare  to  embark  his  fortunes  with 
those  of  Hcrnando  de  Soto.  The  public  voice  imputed  to  him 
and  other  cavaliers  no  higher  ambition  in  undertaking  this  enter- 
prise than  the  capture  of  such  a  number  of  red-men  of  the 
continent  as  would  enable  them  to  stock  with  slaves  their  vast 
landed  estates  in  Cuba.  Don  Balthazar  was  a  widower,  without 
family,  save  in  the  person  of  a  single  niece,  the  only  child  of  a 
brother,  who,  with  his  wife,  had  been  dead  for  several  years.  The 
child  had  been  thrown  upon  the  care  of  her  uncle  from  an  early 
period.  She  was  now  seventeen,  with  considerable  estates  of  her 
own,  upon  which  it  was  shrewdly  conjectured  that  her  uncle  had 
trespassed  frequently,  and  with  no  light  hand.  She  was  as  beautiful 


A   DELICATE   QUESTION.  7 

as  young, — a  tall,  majestic  woman,  with  pale  but  highly  expressive 
features,  a  deep,  dark  eye,  full  of  tenderness  and  thought,  with 
an  expression  of  melancholy  hi  her  countenance,  which  seemed 
rather  to  heighten  than  disparage  the  eminent  beauty  of  her  face. 
"We  shall  see  and  hear  more  of  her  hereafter. 

While  the  two  cavaliers  conferred  together,  De  Soto  paced  the 
apartment  with  an  air  of  much  vexation  and  anxiety.  He  showed 
himself  deeply  chafed  with  matters,  the  discussion  of  which  had 
evidently  occupied  for  some  time  before  the  thoughts  and  feelings 
of  the  two.  Don  Balthazar  kept  hi  a  sitting  posture ;  he  watched 
the  movements  of  his  superior  with  eyes  that  sometimes  gleamed 
with  a  sinister  expression.  This  seemed  to  show  him  not  wholly 
dissatisfied  with  the  annoyances  of  the  other ;  a  slight  smile  at 
moments  played  about  his  mouth, — but  these  were  not  allowed 
to  attract  the  notice  of  De  Soto,  who  broke  into  speech  occasion- 
ally hi  regard  to  the  subject  of  his  vexation. 

"  Methinks,  Don  Balthazar,  you  make  too  light  of  this  mis- 
chief!  You  forget  that  it  was  to  the  particular  care  of  my  wife 
that  the  Count  de  Gomera  confided  his  daughter.  What  if  she 
were  a  natural  child  ? — did  he  love  her  the  less  ?  Was  she  the 
less  honored  by  the  people  under  her  father's  government  ?  You 
say  that  she  had  the  mother's  weakness  !  All  women  are  weak  ; 
and  that  she  should  yield  when  man  persuades,  is  due  rather  to  her 
nature  than  to  the  vices  in  her  heart.  Her  security  is  hi  our  justice, 
and  if  that  fails,  she  fails  also.  But  Leonora  de  Bovadilla  should 
have  had  additional  securities  in  my  household ;  and  I  hold  it  as  an 
outrage  on  myself,  scarcely  to  be  forgiven,  with  any  atonement 
made,  that  one  of  my  own  trusted  Lieutenants  should  have  been 
the  first  to  abuse  these  securities.  It  is  a  wrong  done  to  my 
wife's  honor  and  mine  own,  which,  but  for  the  responsibilities  of 
this  expedition,  would  impel  me  to  punish  the  transgressor  with 
lance  and  sword,  and  compel  him  to  make  the  last  atonement 
with  his  blood  !" 

"  It  is  better  that  he  should  make  atonement  by  marrying  the 
girl,"  was  the  reply  .of  the  other.  "  I  trow,  it  shall  better  please 
one  of  the  parties  at  least." 


8  VASCOXSELOS. 

"  It  shall  please  them  both  !  He  shall  marry  her,  or  he  makes 
of  me  such  an  enemy  as  shall  make  death  itself  a  desirable  release 
to  him  from  punishment." 

"  He  is  prepared  for  this,"  said  the  other.  "  Let  your  anger 
cool.  Saving  the  offence  to  yourself  and  your  honorable  lady, 
there  will  be  no  wrong  done  to  the  damsel.  He  will  repair  the 
breach  hi  her  condition,  and  make  an  honest  woman  of  her  ;  so 
that  no  one  shall  have  reason  to  .complain.  Nuno  de  Tobar  is  a 
free  gallant.  What  he  hath  done  hath  not  been  of  purpose,  but 
in  the  warmth  of  a  passion,  that  has  rather  found  its  countenance 
ill  the  easy  nature  of  the  damsel  herself, — perhaps  in  her  own 
willingness, ' ' 

"  Nay,  nay ;  I  will  not  have  it  so,  Don  Balthazar,"  was  the 
impetuous  response  of  De  Soto  ; — "  this  is  too  much  thy  irrever- 
ent way  of  speaking  where  woman  is  concerned.  The  virtue 
and  modesty  of  the  Lady  Leonora  were  above  reproach." 

"  Well,  I  mean  not  harm,  your  Excellency ;  we  speak  of 
women  as  we  have  found  them.  It  has  been  your  fortune  to 
meet  only  with  such  as  are  pure  ;  but  I " 

"  Let  it  pass,  Senor,"  was  the  interruption.  "  Thou  wilt  see 
Nuno  de  Tobar,  and  teach  him  my  desires — my  demands.  Let 
hmi  marry  the  Lady  Leonora  without  delay.  Myself  and  the 
Lady  Isabella  shall  grace  the  nuptials,  which  shall  not  be  slighted. 
There  shall  be  state  hi  the  arrangements,  such  as  becomes  the 
daughter  of  the  Count  de  Gomera ;  such  as  becomes  a  lady  in 
the  guardianship  of  my  wife.  I  will  give  him  no  countenance  till 
this  be  done  !  I  will  not  see  him  till  the  moment  when  he  unites 
his  hand  with  the  maiden  he  hath  wronged,  under  the  sanction  of 
the  Holy  Church." 

The  speaker  was  suddenly  answered  from  another  quarter, — 

"  Alas  !  your  Excellency,  but  the  offender  must  again  trespass, 
and  again  rely  upon  your  generous  nature  in  the  hope  for  par- 
don," said  the  voice  of  a  third  person,  who  entered  the  door  of 
the  chamber  at  this  moment. 

"How  now,  Senor!  wast  thou  not  forbidden  this  presence?" 
demanded  De  Soto,  angrily.  The  intruded  was  the  offending 


THE   DIFFICULTY   SETTLED.  9 

cavalier,  Nuno  de  Tobar,  whose  liaison  with  the  fair  charge  of  the 
adelantado  had  formed  the  subject  of  the  preceding  conference. 
No  more  graceful  or  superb  cavalier  <had  ever  found  favor  in  the 
eyes  of  woman;  and,  as  now,  with  a  softened  demeanor,  with  the 
air  of  a  man  conscious  of  offence,  and  sincerely  regretting  it,  he 
entered  the  presence  of  his  superior,  his  frank  and  ingenuous 
countenance,  his  noble  though  modest  carriage,  insensibly  won 
upon  the  mood  of  De  Soto,  and  prepared  him  to  listen  patiently 
to  the  apologies  of  the  offender. 

"I  have  erred,"  he  continued,  "and  I  crave  pardon  for  my 
offence.  I  will  make  all  the  amendment  in  my  power.  Unhap- 
pily, I  can  make  but  little — " 

"Thou  wilt  wed  with  the  Lady  Leonora?" 

"That  were  no  atonement,  your  highness,  since  I  shall  esteem 
it  rather  a  reward  for  services  yet  to  be  performed,  that  you  con- 
fer upon  me  a  prize  the  most  precious  to  my  fancy.  That  the 
Lady  Leonora  has  suffered  me  to  know  what  is  the  power  which 
my  heart  exercises  upon  hers,  rather  commends  her  to  my  love, 
than  lessens  the  value  which  I  set  upon  her.  Believe  me,  Seuor, 
that,  in  giving  me  this  lady,  you  offer  the  most  powerful  motives 
to  my  courage  and  fidelity,  in  the  progress  which  lies  before  us, 
in  the  deep  forests  of  the  Floridian." 

This  was  so  gracefully  said  that  De  Soto  was  disarmed.  He 
was  only  too  glad  of  the  opportunity,  thus  afforded  him,  by  the 
readiness  of  the  offender  to  repair  his  misconduct,  to  take  once 
more  into  favor  one  of  the  most  accomplished  gallants  in  his 
train. 

"  I  have  been  angry  with  thee,  Nuno  de  Tobar,  but  thy  heart 
has  not  meant  to  offend.  Away  with  thee,  then  ;  I  forgive  thee ! 
See,  if  thy  lady-love  shall  so  readily  forgive  thee,  in  making  her 
ready  to  attend  thee  to  the  altar.  Thou  shalt  be  duly  warned 
of  the  time  when  it  shall  please  my  wife  to  see  thee  wedded  to 
thine.  Meanwhile,  prepare  thee  with  all  dispatch,  for  there  must 
be  no  needless  delays  in  our  expedition.  Our  departure  is  at 
hand." 

Some  farther  conference  ersued  between  the  parties,  and 
1*' 


10  VASCONSELOS. 

when  the  young  cavalier  had  left  the  presence,  which  he  did  with- 
out rendering  necessary  the  commands  of  his  superior,  De  Soto 
resumed  as  follows : 

"  This  passeth  my  hope !  I  had  feared  a  straggle  with  the  hot 
passions  of  this  youth.  Few  men  tolerate  compulsion  in  afkirs 
of  love ;  still  fewer  the  necessity  of  an  alliance  with  the  thing 
they  have  dishonored.  Strange  that  we  should  be  so  heedful  of 
a  stain  which  is  of  our  own  making :  but  verily  such  is  man's 
nature.  That  Nuno  de  Tobar  is  so  easy  in  this  matter, — though 
it  likes  me  as  repairing  the  shame  of  the  Lady  Leonora,  and  re- 
lieving me  of  some  of  the  trouble  in  my  path, — yet  somewhat 
lessens  him  in  my  favor.  He  seemeth  to  me  rather  heedless  on 
'  the  point  of  honor." 

"  Nay,  your  excellency  is  now  unreasonable,"  was  the  answer 
of  Don  Balthazar ;  "  Nuno  de  Tobar  is  a  philosopher  somewhat 
after  my  own  fashion.  He  hath  made  no  large  calculation  upon 
the  sex ;  therefore  he  shall  not  suffer  greatly  from  experience 
hereafter.  Thou  wilt  do  well  to  suffer  him  to  see  no  diminution 
of  thy  favor.  Hast  thou  not  declared  him  thy  lieutenant-general  1 
Wilt  thou  revoke  thy  trust  ?  If  thou  dost,  the  offence  were  more 
grievous  than  the  command  which  weds  him  to  this  damsel. 
That  were  not  so  readily  forgiven.  Trust  me,  he  is  one  to 
resent  a  wrong  done  to  his  ambition,  where  he  might  submit  to 
one  inflicted  on  his  heart." 

"  It  may  be  so,"  was  De  Soto's  answer  to  this  suggestion, 
"  yet  I  have  resolved  that  he  goes  no  longer  as  my  lieutenant- 
general.  I  think  of  this  office  for  another.  It  shall  certainly  be 
his  no  longer.  He  shall  win  his  way  to  favor  ere  he  gains  it. 
What  thinkest  thou  of  Vasco  Porcallo  for  this  station?" 

"  Does  he  join  the  expedition  1"  inquired  the  other. 

"  Will  such  an  appointment  fail  to  persuade  him  to  the  enter- 
prise? Such  is  the  bait  which  I  have  passed  before  his  eyes." 

"  His  treasures  are  an  object,  surely !" 

"  He  is  brave  also,  and  full  of  spirit." 

"  But  he  is  old  and  capricious !  a  single  skirmish  with  the  red- 
men  will  suffice  for  Ms  ambition." 


REASONS  FOR  A  CHANGE.  11 

"  Be  it  so ;  but  he  shall  have  made  his  investments !  His  cas- 
tcllanoes  will  have  embarked  in  the  expedition.  These  are  not 
easily  recalled.  He  may  retire  from  toils  which  are  too  great 
for  his  years ;  but  what  shall  restore  him  his  gold  when  it  shall 
have  been  expended  in  the  enterprise?" 

De  Soto  had  made  his  calculations  shrewdly.  One  of  his 
vices — the  greatest — was  avarice.  This  impaired  the  dignity 
and  virtue  of  his  ambition.  Don  Balthazar  was  soon  persuaded 
to  see,  in  the  argument  of  the  adelantado,  good  reasons  for  con- 
firming the  office  of  lieutenant-general  on  the  rich  hidalgo,  Vasco 
Porcallo  de  Figueroa,  and  for  deposing  from  it  the  poor  but  gal- 
lant young  cavalier  who  had  so  grievously  offended.  The  subject, 
however,  was  soon  dismissed,  to  give  way  to  another  of  consider- 
able interest  to  both  the  parties.  But,  for  the  discussion  of  this, 
we  reserve  ourselves  for  a  fresh  chapter,  as  it  will  need  the  pres- 
ence of  another  of  the  persons  of  our  drama. 


CHAPTER   II. 

"  Go,  Philostrate, 

Stir  up  the  Athenian  youth  to  merriments  ; 
Awake  the  pert  and  risible  spirit  of  mirth  ; 
Turn  melancholy  forth  to  funeral  ; 
The  pale  companion  is  not  for  our  pomp." — SHAKSPEAKB. 

"  HAVE  you  sounded  these  Portuguese  brothers,  as  I  coun- 
selled you  ?"  was  the  inquiry  of  De  Soto. 

The  brow  of  Don  Balthazar  slightly  darkened  as  he  answered : 

"  It  is  not  easy  to  sound  them.  They  are  suspicious  and  re- 
sentful. The  jealousies  of  our  people  have  made  them  so  ;  and 
you  have  been  able  to  offer  them  no  position.  I  should  have 
preferred,  were  this  possible,  that  one  of  them  should  have  this 
very  office  you  propose  to  confer  upon  Vasco  Porcallo." 

"  That  is  out  of  the  question." 

"I  feel  it ;  and  yet,  beyond  the  hope  of  profit,  which  is  felt 
by  the  commonest  arquebusier  in  the  army,  what  is  the  motive 
for  the  enterprise  on  the  part  of  these  brothers  ?  They  are  both 
young  and  noble — ambitious  and  full  of  valor.  Their  followers 
are  few,  it  is  true,  but  they  will  make  good  fight ;  and  really,  the 
abilities  of  the  elder  brother,  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  are  proba- 
bly of  greater  value  than  those  of  any  of  your  cavaliers.  The 
companion  of  De  Vac_a,  he  hath  traversed  all  these  wilds  of  Flori- 
da, and  probably  knoweth  all  the  secrets  of  which  De  Vaca  made 
such  glorious  boast  and  mystery.  Besides,  he  speaks  and  un- 
derstands the  language  of  the  natives ;  an  advantage  of  which  it 
is  difficult  to  measure  the  importance.  Of  his  valor  and  con- 
duct we  have  sufficient  testimony  of  our  own  eyes,  even  if  the 
evidence  of  other  witnesses  were  wanting;  De  Vaga  himself 
spoke  of  him  as  one  of  the  most  prudent  and  valiant  of  his 
cavaliers." 
tt 


AN    UNPLEASANT  SUGGESTION.  13 

"  All  this,  I  wot,"  answered  the  other  impatiently,  "  but  what 
of  thy  mission?  what  mean  they  by  the  reserve  which  seeks 
me  not,  and  the 'change  of  mood  which  makes  them  declare 
themselves  doubtful  whether  or  not  to  proceed  upon  the  en- 
terprise V 

"  They  have  spoken  somewhat  of  the  evident  dislike  and 
jealousies  of  certain  of  our  knights,  to  say  nothing  of  the  rude 
disfavor  of  the  common  soldiers." 

"  This  alone  should  show  them  how  impossible  it  would  be  to 
give  them  command  over  onr  Spaniards.  Are  they  not  satisfied 
of  this?" 

"  Yet  doth  it  also  afford  sufficient  reason  why  they  should  be 
unwilling  to  proceed  in  any  enterprise  with  companions  so  un- 
reasonable, for  whom  they  will  peril  life  and  fortune,  and  from 
whom  they  can  expect  nothing  in  return." 

"  And  thou  hast  gathered  nothing  further  from  thy  inquiries 
into  this  matter  1  Hath  nothing  occurred  to  thy  own  thought 
and  observation  to  add  force  to  the  difficulty  which  thou  hast 
seen  so  clearly,  and  which  thou  hold'st  so  weighty?  Bethink 
thee,  Don  Balthazar,  hast  thou  not  a  niece,  a  damsel  lovely  as 
any  that  ever  blossomed  in  bright  Castile  ?  These  knights  of 
Portugal  have  looked  upon  the  maiden  with  eyes  of  love  1  Ha ! 
Is't  not  so  ?  Dost  thou  not  see  it  ?" 

The  brow  of  the  person  addressed  again  darkened  as  this 
suggestion  met  his  ears.  His  lips  might  be  seen  more  closely  to 
contract  together.  He  was  about  to  speak  when  the  rustling  of 
silken  garments  at  the  entrance  announced  a  new  visitor;  and 
the  door  opened,  a  moment  after,  for  the  admission  of  the  lady 
of  the  adelantado.  Both  knights  approached  her  as  she  ap- 
peared, with  shows  of  the  most  profound  deference. 

"Am  I  permitted  to  attend  these  solemn  councils?"  was  the 
inquiry  of  the  noble  ladjf  as  she  passed  into  the  apartment ;  her 
voice  softly  attuned  to  the  play fufr  question,  and  her  lips  parting 
with  the  sweetest  smiles. 

"To  one  who  so  admirably  unites  the  wisdom  of  the  one, 
with  the  virtues  of  the  other  sex — the  strength  and  dignity  of 


14  VASCONSELOS. 

manhood  with  4ie  grace  and  loveliness  of  woman — counsel  her- 
self must  willingly  incline  her  ear.  We  were  foes  to  wisdom 
did  we  refuse  to  hearken  to  the  words  of  her  best  favorite." 

The  stately  compliment,  so  perfectly  Spanish,  was  from  the 
lips  of  Don  Balthazar,  upon  whom  the  lady  smiled  most 
sweetly,  not  wholly  insensible,  it  would  seem,  to  the  honeyed 
flattery. 

"  Now,  verily,"  exclaimed  De  Soto,  who  beheld  the  expres- 
sion in  her  face ;  "  now,  verily,  hath  this  politician  won  thy 
whole  heart  by  the  silliest  speech.  He  is  like  the  cunning  knave 
who  possesseth  counterfeit  castellanoes,  who,  knowing  their  just 
worthlessness,  yet  circulates  them  for  the  value  which  they  de- 
rive only  from  the  ignorance  of  him  who  receives.  He  hath  put 
his  copper  trinket  upon  thee,  and  will  look  for  the  golden  one  in 
return,  even  as  we  look  to  our  Floridian  savage  for  the  precious 
metals,  in  exchange  for  others,  which  are  as  dear  to  his  eyes,  as 
despicable  in  ours.  Is  it  not  so,  my  lady  1  And  yet,  if  thou  art 
thus  easily  put  upon,  what  shall  be  my  security,  leaving  the 
government  of  Cuba  in  thy  hands  ?" 

"  Oh !  fear  nothing,  my  lord ;  I  shall  ere  long  become  schooled 
in  all  the  subtleties  of  thy  politicians,  so  that  thy  government 
shall  have  no  wrong  during  thy  absence.  Be  not  deceived,  my 
good  lord,  in  the  supposed  estimate  which  our  sex  makes  of  the 
flatteries  of  thine.  We  receive  the  coin  that  thou  offerest,  not 
because  we  overvalue  it  or  esteem  it  very  highly,  but  simply  as 
we  know  that  it  is  quite  too  commonly  the  most  precious  which 
ye  have  to  offer.  Were  sincerity  one  of  the  virtues  of  the  man, 
we  should  perhaps  never  listen  to  his  flatteries  ;  but  it  were  un- 
reasonable to  reject  his  false  tokens,  when  we  know  that  such 
constitute  his  whole  treasure;  and  we  receive  the  tribute  of  his 
lips  only  in  the  absence  of  all  better  securities  lodged  within  his 
heart.  It  is  something  of  an  acknowledgment,  in  behalf  of  our 
authority,  that  he  is  solicitou*  to  show  the  devotion  which  he 
has  not  always  the  nobleness  to  feel." 

"  Ha !  Senor  Balthazar,  we  gain  nothing  by  this  banter.  Our 
lady  knows  that  our  gold  is  copper  It  is  for  such  only  that 


THE   ADELANTADO'S   WIFE.  15 

she  takes  it.  Shrewdly  spoken,  by  my  faith ;  and  yet  it  might 
be  as  shrewdly  said,  in  reply,  why  receive  the  counterfeit  at  all, 
knowing  so  well  its  worthlessness,  unless  it  .were  that  the  de- 
pendency of  the  one  sex  upon  the  other,  rendered  any  gift  of 
the  man  sufficiently  precious,  (though  worthless  in  itself,)  in  the 
eyes  of  the  woman." 

"  Now  out  upon  thee  for  a  heathen  savage  !  Thou  art  not 
satisfied  with  shaming  Don  Balthazar  with  his  tribute,  but  thou 
must  shame  me  with  the  pleasure  I  feel  in  receiving  it  at  his 
hands.  I  would  thou  wert  fairly  on  thy  march  among  the  Flori- 
dian,  that  I  might  play  the  tyrant  in  thy  government  of  Cuba, 
to  the  peril  of  thy  insolent  sex !  But  proceed  to  thy  councils, 
if  there  be  nothing  unfit  for  the  ears  of  the  woman.  I  have 
need  to  sound  the  depths  of  all  thy  policy  in  other  respects, 
since  I  am  to  play  sovereign  in  thy  place  hereafter." 

The  noble  lady,  speaking  playfully,  had,  in  the  meanwhile, 
with  a  grace  peculiarly  her  own,  sunk  down  upon  the  divan  of 
orange,  from  which  Don  Balthazar  had  risen  to  receive  her.  Few 
persons,  not  actually  born  in  the  purple,  were  so  well  endowed 
to  honor  it,  and  to  wield  authority  with  sweetness.  The  daughter 
of  Don  Pedrarias  Davila,  a  man  distinguished,  unhappily,  quite 
as  much  by  his  cruel  treatment  of  the  famous  Vasco  Nunez  de 
Balboa,  the  discoverer  of  the  Pacific,  as  by  his  own  deeds  and 
successes,  Isabella  de  Bobadilla,  inherited  the  pride  and  dignity 
of  her  father's  character,  without  those  taints  of  vindictiveness 
and  passion  which  had  rendered  him  odious  among  his  inferiors. 
She  possessed  that  happy  prudence  which  never  forgets  what 
is  due  to  the  humanities  and  the  affections  in  the  moment  of 
power  and  good  fortune.  She  was  wiser  than  the  greater  num- 
ber of  her  sex ;  calm  in  the  hour  of  trial,  full  of  provident  fore- 
thought, with  a  mind  quite  equal  to  the  government  about  to 
devolve  upon  her,  and  with  a  heart  devoted  to  that  lord  who 
was  about  to  leave  her  for  a  protracted  season  in  a  perilous  pro- 
gress, to  which  he  was  induced  by  the  single  persuasions  of  am- 
bition. He  had  found  her  an  admirable  counsellor  and  ally,  in 
making  his  preparations  for  the  expedition ;  and,  in  penetrating 


16  VASCONSELOS. 

his  chamber  of  council  without  a  summons,  she  was  yet  satisfied, 
from  past  experience,  that  her  presence  in  such  a  place  was 
never  wholly  unacceptable  or  unprofitable!  When,  therefore, 
she  declared  her  pleasure  to  remain,  unless  the  topics  under 
discussion  should  prove  ungracious  in  the  hearing  of  her  sex,  the 
ready  answer  of  her  husband  entreated  her  to  do  so,  whilst 
assuring  her  against  the  exception  which  she  expressed. 

"  Nay,  Isabella,"  said  he ;  "  it  particularly  concerns  thy  sex, 
that  of  which  we  are  to  speak,  and  much  of  what  has  been 
spoken.  Know  then,  in  the  first  place,  that  thou  art  to  prepare 
thy  lovely  handmaid,  the  damsel  Leonora,  for  her  nuptials  with 
Nuno  de  Tobar." 

"  Thou  hast  then  adjusted  that  matter  ?"  said  the  lady,  with  a 
grave  accent  and  demeanor. 

"  It  is  settled,  and  without  anger  or  difficulty.  It  is  for  thee  to 
decide  upon  the  hour  of  the  bridal.  Let  it  be  soon,  for  we  must 
have  dispatch,  and  advise  with  the  damsel  ere  the  day  be  sped. 
But  there  is  yet  another  matter  connected  with  thy  sex  which 
troubles  me,  and  prevents  my  purpose.  Their  mischievous  influ- 
ence hath  been  at  work  upon  my  bravest  cavaliers.  Thou 
knowest  these  two  young  knights  of  Portugal.  I  need  not  tell 
thee  of  their  worth,  their  valor,  and  the  great  importance  to  the 
expedition  of  the  elder  brother,  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  who  hath 
already  sped  over  all  the  territory  of  the  Floridian,  and  is  fami- 
liar with  the  heathen  speech  of  its  people.  Now,  it  so  happens 
that  these  two  young  gallants  grow  indifferent  to  the  enterprise. 
They  have  held  themselves  somewhat  aloof  from  me  of  late,  and 
words  have  been  heard  to  fall  from  their  lips,  which  declare  their 
doubts  whether  they  will  accompany  the  expedition,  as  was  their 
purpose  when  they  joined  our  armainent  at  Seville." 

"And  canst  thou  not  guess  the  reason  for  this  change  of  pur- 
pose ]"  demanded  the  lady,  with  a  smile. 

"  Ay,  verily  !  Thy  smile  tells  me  that  I  am  right  in -ascribing 
their  fickleness  of  purpose  to  the  persuasions  and  artifices  of  thy 
sex.  Our  grave  Sefior,  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro,  will  have  it 
due  only  to  the  jealousies  of  our  Spaniards,  with  whom  these 


DISAGREEMENT  OF  OPINION.  17 

men  of  Portugal  find  but  little  favor.  Something  there  may  be 
in  this,  doubtless ;  but,  I  trow,  it  would  never  be  sufficient  to 
discourage  such  young  gallants,  known*  for  then*  bravery,  and 
ambitious  of  wealth  and  distinction,  were  it  not  for  the  charms  of 
the  Lady  Olivia,  his  fair  niece, " 

"  It  may  be  that  thou  art  right  in  thy  conjecture,"  said  Don 
Balthazar,  interrupting  the  speaker,  his  brow  again  darkening  as 
if  with  displeasure  ;  "  but  it  will  profit  them  little  that  they  turn 
their  eyes  in  the  direction  of  my  niece.  Olivia  de  Alvaro  is 
scarcely  the  proper  game  for  either  of  these  knights  of  Portugal." 

"  And  wherefore,  Sefior  ]"  was  the  quick  inquiry  of  Doiia 
Isabella.  "  These  are  brave  and  honorable  gentlemen,  both  ;  of 
— as  we  know — a  family  as  noble  as  any  in  Portugal.  They 
have  not  wealth,  it  is  true,  but  they  have  the  qualities  of 
strength,  courage,  and  enterprise,  which  in  these  days  of  '  Gold- 
en Cathays,'  everywhere  achieve  wealth,  and  make  obscure 
names  famous.  I  see  not  why  you  should  so  sternly  resolve 
against  the  devotion  which  they  seem  disposed  to  offer  to  your 
niece." 

Don  Balthazar  trod  the  floor  in  a  stern  silence,  while  the  Ade- 
lantado  took  up  the  words, — 

"  Thou  hast  forgotten  another  matter,  my  lady,  which  seemeth 
to  me  of  no  small  import  in  this  case.  If  I  mistake  not  greatly, 
the  decision  of  the  Lady  Olivia  herself  will  surely  be  more  in- 
dulgent than  that  of  her  guardian,  in  relation  to  these  young 
knights  of  Portugal." 

"  But  I  am  her  guardian,  your  excellency,  and  my  niece  is  but 
a  chi]d. " 

"  Seventeen  is  a  goodly  age  for  female  judgment,  Sofiov.  in 
affairs  of  the  affections,"  was  the  answer  of  the  lady.  "  But 
thou  surely  wilt  not  oppose  the  authority  of  the  guardian  to  the 
wishes  of  thy  niece,  when  these  fasten  upon  a  person  of  whose 
worth  and  nobleness  there  can  be  no  question." 

"  Ah  !  but  I  know  not  that,"  was  the  quick  reply  of  Don  Bal- 
thazar. "  T  see  not — I  believe  not — that  the  affections  of  Olivia 
incline  to  either  of  these  Portuguese  adventurers." 


18  VASCOXSELOS. 

"  Deceive  not  thyself,  Senor,"  said  the  Lady  Isabella.  "  Men 
are  seldom  the  best  judges  of  such  matters,  especially  where 
they  are  grave  senators  and  busy  politicians.  You  have  quite 
too  many  concerns  to  demand  your  study — too  many  cares  oi 
business  and  fortune  to  suffer  you  to  give  much  heed  to  the  ten- 
dency of  a  young  and  feminine  heart.  I  claim  to  understand  it 
better," and  I  tell  thee,  Seiior,  that  if  ever  woman  loved  cavalier, 
with  all  her  soul,  and  with  all  her  strength,  then  doth  Olivia 
de  Alvaro  love  this  elder  knight  of  Portugal,  whom  they  call 
Pliilip  de  Vasconselos." 

"  1  believe  it  not !  You  are  deceived,  Lady  Isabella.  I  am 
sure  that  such  is  not  the  case.  But  if  it  were,  I  should  be  false  to  the 
duties  I  have  undertaken  to  suffer  her  inclinations  to  have  s\vay 
in  this.  This  Philip  de  Vasconselos  may  have  his  virtues ;  yet 
what  is  he  but  a  beggarly  adventurer,  who  has  squandered  his 
birthright  in  wanderings  where  the  better  wisdom  has  always 
succeeded  in  acquiring  it  ?" 

"  Not  always,  Senor,  unless  old  proverbs  fail  us.  The  best 
wisdom  is  but  too  commonly  the  last  to  secure  the  smiles  of  For- 
tune. Have  not  your  poets  made  her  feminine,  and  with  two- 
fold sarcasm  made  her  caprices  to  resemble  ours  1  Say  they 
not,  that  he  is  most  apt  to  win  her  favor  who  less  does  for,  and 
less  deserves  it ;  and  shape  they  not  their  sarcasm  in  such  wise 
as  to  salve  the  hurts  of  self-esteem,  by  recognizing  the  propriety 
of  tluit  fiivor  which  provides  for  him  who  would  never  be  able, 
of  his  own  wits,  to  provide  for  himself?  You  shall  do  no  slander 
to  this  knight  of  Portugal,  Philip  de  Vasconselos.  who,  verily,  is 
a  man  of  thought  as  well  as  of  valor.  I  have  enjoyed  his  wis- 
dom with  a  rare  delight,  and  if  his  valor  keep  any  rate  of  pace 
with  his  judgment,  he  should  be  a  famous  leader  in  such  adven- 
ture as  that  on  which  ye  go.  For  the  younger  brother,  I  can 
scarcely  speak  so  favorably.  He  seemeth-at  once  less  wise  and 
more  presuming.  He  speaks  as  one  confident  in  himself,  and  I 
should  deem  him  quite  as  rash  and  ill-advised  as  valiant ; — nay 
more,  he  hath  the  manner  of  a  man  whom  small  griefs  unreason- 
ably inflame, — who  is  irritable  of  mood,  suspicious  of  those 


THE  DOVE  AND  THE  FALCON.  19 

about  him,  jealous  of  the  good  fame  of  his  companions,  and  one 
of  too  little  faith  in  others  to  be  altogether  worthy  of  faith  him- 
self. But  it  is  not  of  him  that  we  need  td  speak.  He  hath,  I 
fiiiicv.  but  little  chance  of  success  with  our  fair  cousin,  though  it 
is  evident  he  hath  a  passion  for  her  quite  as  earnest  as  that  of  his 
elder  brother." 

"  What  sayest  thou,  Senor ]"  demanded  De  Soto,  as  his  wife 
concluded. 

"  What  should  I  say,  your  excellency,"  replied  the  latter, 
somewhat  doggedly, — "  save  that  my  niece  is  in  my  keeping  ] 
She  will  not,  I  think,  gainsay  my  judgment  in  this  matter  by 
opposing  it  with  her  own." 

"  Will  she  not  ?"  demanded  the  lady,  with  a  smile.  "  We 
shall  see,  Senor,  who  better  understands  the  heart  of  woman. 
Bethink  you,  it  is  upon  no  ordinary  matter  that  you  ask  her  to 
forego  her  judgment.  The  fate  of  woman  is  in  the  resolve  which 
she  shall  make  for  or  against  her  heart.  Her  whole  life  is  in  the 
love  which  she  feels;  and  this  denied,  or  this  possessed,  deter- 
mines her  existence.  She  hath  a  rare  instinct  which  teaches  her 
all  this.  Submissive  in  all  other  respects,  she  here  grows  reso- 
lute and  strong  ;  and  she  whom  you  knew  for  many  seasons  the 
dove  only,  shall,  when  the  heart  demands  such  will  and  courage, 
assume  the  fierce  courage  of  the  lli^con.  Believe  it  cfr  not, 
Olivia  de  Alvaro  loves  this  knight  of  Portugal ;  and  so  loving, 
you  shall  not  say  nay  to  her  desire,  and  find  no  resistance  to 
your  will." 

"  It  may  be,"  was  the  answer  of  the  other,  his  brow  still  dark- 
ened, but  a  sinister  smile  at  the  same  moment  curling  his  lips, 
though  scarce  perceptible  to  those  about  him.  That  he  was 
chafed  beyond  his  wont,  was  still  apparent. 

"Verily,  Senor  Balthazar,"  said  De  Soto,  "this  thing  h;ith 
angered  you.  You  will  do  well  to  bear  it  calmly.  Our  lady  is 
surely  right.  The  heart  of  thy  niece  hath  made  its  choice,  as 
certainly  as  that  Philip  de  Vasconselos  hath  resolved  on  his;  and 
thou  wilt  be  wise  to  put  on  a  friendly  countenance  when  they 


20  7ASCONSELOS. 

come  to  declare  their  desires.     Thou  -wilt  scarcely  find  a  nobler 
cavalier  in  all  Spain  upon  whom  to  bestow  her  fortune." 

"  And  will  you  that  I  should  encourage  a  passion  which  will 
tend  to  baffle  thy  own  desires  ?"  demanded  Don  Balthazar. 

"  How  so, — what  meanest  thou  ?"  was  the  inquiry  of  De  Soto, 
who  looked  the  alarm  which  he  really  felt. 

"  See'st  thou  not  that  the  bridal  of  Philip  de  Vasconselos  with 
Olivia  de  Alvaro  is  conclusive  against  his  progress  with  the  expe- 
dition ?  With  her  estates  hi  Cuba  to  occupy  his  thoughts, — with 
her  wealth  in  which  to  luxuriate, — wherefore  should  he  incur  the 
peril  of  the  Floridian  enterprise  ?" 

"  And  wherefore  should  my  lord  himself  incur  such  peril,  Seilor 
Balthazar?"  was  the  quick  and  energetic  reply  of  the  la<3y. 
"  Hath  lie  not  estates  in  Cuba,  a  government  to  demand  his  care, 
and  wealth  enough  with  which  to  procure  all  the  luxuries  of  the 
island  1  Yet  he  will  leave  all  these — he  will  leave  me,  but  lately 
his  newly-wedded  bride — and  one,  I  trow,  not  wholly  without  hold 
upon  his  heart — and  go  forth  upon  adventures  of  incomparable 
peril.  But  this  belongs  to  the  passion  of  a  knightly  ambition — a 
generous  impatience  of  the  dull  paces  of  the  common  life ; — an 
eager  and  noble  appetite  after  conquest,  and  the  glory  which  it 
brings !  Of  this  same  temper,  seems  to  me  the  ambition  of  this 
knigh^  of  Portugal,  who  hath  been  regardless  of  wealth  only  as 
he  hath  been  heedful  of  honor, — and  whose  pride  it  is  rather  to 
win  a  glorious  name,  than  a  golden  habitation.  Thou  shalt  not 
disparage  this  quest,  Senor,  since  it  is  one  which  is  ever  precious 
in  the  sight  of  a  generous  knighthood." 

"  You  speak  it  bravely,  my  lady ;  but  shall  not  persuade  me 
that  this  knight  of  Portugal  would  wed  my  niece  only  to  depart 
from  her.  He  shall  need  some  time  after  the  nuptials,  ere  his 
ambition  shall  assert  itself.  His  love  of  distinction  will  doubt- 

9 

less  bring  him  after  the  adelantado — but  with  slow  footsteps,  and 
when  his  lance  shall  be  no  longer  needful  to  success." 

"This  is,  indeed,  a  matter  to  be  thought  on,  Don  Balthazar," 
was  the  reply  of  De  Soto,  looking  gravely,  and  evidently  touched 


FAMILY   TROUBLES.  21 

by  the  suggestion  of  the  other.  "There  is  surely  reason  in  what 
thou  hast  spoken.  I  had  not  thought  of  this  before." 

The  interruption  of  the  Lady  Isabella  was  almost  instantaneous. 

"  Nor  must  you  think  of  it  now,  my  Lord,  as  a  thing  which 
should  move  you  to  encourage  Don  Balthazar  in  his  hostility  to 
the  affections  of  his  niece.  Doubtless,  the  loss  of  this  young 
knight  will  be  somewhat  felt  by  you  in  this  expedition.  I  can 
easily  understand  the  value  of  such  a  lance,  and  that  which  is  due 
to  his  particular  experience  with  the  Floridian.  But  shall  these 
things  justify  a  wrong  done  to  fond  hearts  that  merit  only  fond- 
ness ?  Are  the  affections  of  so  sweet  and  tender  a  woman  as 
Olivia  de  Alvaro  to  be  set  at  naught,  because  of  thy  or  my  am- 
bition 1  Let  us  be  just  and  generous,  my  lord.  Give  these 
young  people  way !  Let  them  be  happy,  if  they  may,  in  mutual 
love.  That  they  do  love,  I  see, — I  am  sure.  It  is  a  strange 
blindness  of  Senor  Balthazar  which  will  not  suffer  him  to  see  as 
we  do ; — a  strange  blindness  which  refuses  to  see  In  this  young 
knight,  a  noble  and  a  fitting  husband  for  his  niece.  If  we  may 
not  move  him  to  be  friendly  to  their  desires,  let  us  not  encourage 
him  in  an  opposition  which  I  foresee  will  be  only  as  fruitless  as 
unwise." 

"  Fruitless !"  exclaimed  Don  Balthazar,  with  a  somewhat  bitter 
smile.  "  We  shall  see.  We  shall  see  !" 

"  Hear  me  yet  farther,  Don  Ilernan,  my  gracious  lord. 
There  is  one  process  by  which  to  test  the  strength  of  this  young 
knight's  passion.  If  his  love  shall  falter  in  the  struggle  with  his 
ambition,  then  I  shall  rather  glad  me  that  Olivia  goes  far  from 
his  regards.  You  owe  to  these  good  people  of  Cuba  some  special 
ceremonials  ere  taking  your  departure.  There  needs  a  still  more 
imposing  display  of  your  power,  at  once  to  reward  their  devo- 
tion, and  to  confirm  your  authority,  during  your  absence,  in  my 
feeble  hands.  Order  a  splendid  tournament  for  an  early  day 
preceding  your  departure.  Let  there  be  prizes  for  valor  to  win, 
and  beauty  to  bestow.  Spare  nothing  that  shall  kindle  to  the 
utmost  the  chivalrous  ambition  in  your  followers;  and  let  all 
things  be  done,  as  it  were,  to  furnish  a  foretaste  of  the  treasures 


22  VASCONSELOS. 

and  the  achievements  which  await  the  valiant  among  the  heathen. 
There  shall  be  sharp  trials  of  skill  and  strength  among  your 
knights,  and  those  of  Portugal  shall  not  be  wanting.  Build  upon 
this  for  the  temptations  which  are  to  confirm  them  in  their  first 
purpose  of  exploring  and  conquering  the  golden  cities  of  the 
Florid  ian." 

"  Now  hath  Dona  Isabella  counselled  truly,  as  hath  ever  been 
her  wont,"  said  Don  Balthazar,  eagerly  seizing  upon  a  suggestion 
which  promised  somewhat,  however  vaguely,  to  assist  in  extri- 
cating him  from  a  difficulty  which,  it  was  evident  to  his  superior, 
was  one  of  unusual  annoyance. 

"Both  of  these  brothers,"  he  continued,  "cherish  an  eager  anx- 
iety for  distinction-  in  tilt  and  tourney.  Thus  far,  they  have  suf- 
fered no  sports  of  this  character  to  escape  them;  and  one  which 
shall  make  an  event  in  Cuba  long  to  be  remembered  with  wonder 
and  delight,  shall  surely  reawaken  in  their  bosom  all  their  most 
earnest  appetites  for  fame.  Let  them  but  draw  the  eyes  of  all 
cavaliers  upon  themselves  in  this  tourney,  and  they  shall  scarcely, 
through  very  shame,  be  enabled  to  escape  the  necessity  of  joining 
in  the  enterprise. 

"It  shall  be  done,"  said  De  Soto,  with  the  air  of  a  man  sud- 
denly relieved  from  his  anxieties.  "Thou  hast  counselled,  my 
lady,  with  as  just  a  knowledge  of  our  sex  and  its  vanities,  as  of 
thine  own  and  its  sympathies.  And  now  for  the  plan  of  this 
tournament.  We  shall  need  for  this,  not  only  thy  help,  Senor 
Balthazar,  but  that  also  of  that  scape-grace,  Nuno  de  Tobar. 
\Ve  have  taken  him  to  favor  at  the  proper  season." 

The  difficulties  of  the  discussion  were  fairly  at  an  end.  The 
plans  fur  the  future  festivities  need  not  call  for  consideration 
now. 


CHAPTER    III. 

1  She's  safe  enough  at  home, 
And  has  but  half  her  wits,  as  I  remember  ; 
The  devil  cannot  juggle  her  from  my  custody." 

THE  day  was  consumed  before  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro  was 
released  i'rom  his  duties  near  the  person  of  the  adelantado.  It 
had  been,  with  the  former,  a  day  of  protracted  toil,  not  without 
certain  accompanying  tortures.  The  tortures,  however,  did  not 
exactly  follow  from  the  toil.  On  the  contrary,  he  could  have 
pursued  the  former,  not  only  without  the  slightest  feelings  of  an- 
noyance or  inconvenience,  but  with  an  elasticity  and-  sense  of 
satisfaction,  the  natural  consequence  of  his  deep  sympathy  in  the 
objects  of  the  expedition.  His  tortures  belonged  entirely  to  a 
subject,  the  annoyances  of  which,  to  him,  were  not  by  any  means 
suspected  by  DC  Soto  or  his  noble  lady.  Little  did  they  fancy 
the  deep  and  peculiar  disquiet  which  Don  Balthazar  suffered  from 
any  allusion  to  the  probability  of  his  niece's  marriage.  Had  the 
lover  been  any  other  than  the  knight  of  Portugal — had  he  been 
the  most  unexceptionable  person  in  the  world — the  case  would 
not  have  been  altered.  He  would  still  have  found  a  stern  hostility 
in  the  uncle  of  the  lady,  for  which  no  reasons  of  ordinary  policy 
could  possibly  account. 

But  Don  Balthazar  had  the  strength  of  will  to  conceal  from 
his  superior,  as  from  all  others,  the  degree  of  concern  which  he 
felt  in  relation  to  this  subject.  His  experienced  and  indurated 
nature  knew  well  how  to  clothe  itself,  externally,  in  the  gar- 
ments of  a  rugged  indifference,  or  ofa  pulseless  apathy.  But 
he  suffered  not  the  less  in  secret ;  and,  with  the  release  from  the 
restraints  of  that  companionship  throughout  the  day,  which  had 
•1  his  secret  feelings,  they  broke  out  in  expressions  of  cor- 


2-4  VASCONSELOS. 

responding  force  with  the  pressure  that  had  be'en  laid  upon  them. 
Let  us  follow  him  as,  after  a  long  conference  with  the  adelantado, 
he  took  his  way,  at  the  approach  of  evening,  toward  the  inviting 
solitude  of  his  own  habitation. 

This  was  situated  in  one  of  the  loneliest,  as  well  as  the  loveli- 
est, of  the  suburbs  of  tne  infant  city.  The  retreat  was  one  in 
which  love  and  ambition  might  equally  delight  to  meditate ;  the 
one  on  human  sympathies,  which  are  always  sweetly  associated 
with  the  beauty  and  innocence  of  nature — the  other  upon  proud 
hope  and  prospects  in  the  future,  which  present  possessions 
princely  and  beautiful,  might  naturally  suggest  to  the  fierce  will 
and  the  grasping,  eager  temperament.  The  site  of  the  habitation 
of  Don  Balthazar  was  happily  found  upon  a  gentle  eminence, 
which  afforded  equal  glimpses  of  the  city  and  the  sea.  Its  hori 
zon  was  only  circumscribed  by  its  trees, — fruitage  and  flowers  in 
an  excess  of  which  the  best  taste,  in  a  warm  climate,  would  find 
it  difficult  to  complain.  The  air  that  breathed  balm  ever  through 
its  atmosphere — the  breeze  swelling  at  frequent  periods  from  its 
tributary  seas — the  chirp  of  innocent  insects,  and  the  song  of 
uncaged,  but  never  wandering  birds — were  all  suggestive  of  that 
condition  of  the  dolce  far  niente  of  the  fatal  tyranny  of  which  the 
sage  and  moralist  dilate  hi  warning  exhortation  ever,  yet  to 
•which  they  are  always  most  ready  to  submit  with  pleasure,  and 
to  remember  with  regret  and  yearning.  Fruits  of  every  luscious 
variety,  flowers  of  the  most  golden  and  glorious  hues  and  per- 
fumes, vines  and  leaves  of  all  most  grateful  descriptions,  harmo- 
nized with  this  happy  empire,  where  the  passions,  whether  droop- 
ing or  triumphant,  might  here  find  themselves  at  home.  The 
shadiest  palms,  and  other  trees  of  equal  verdure  and  fragrance, 
compensated  for  the  absence  of  grandeur  and  sublimity,  which, 
indeed,  must  have  been  inconsistent  with  the  peculiar  moral  of 
such  an  abode.  The  attractions  of  this  sweet  seclusion  were  not 
wholly  confined  to  the  gifts  and  attributes  of  nature.  The  hand 
of  art  had  been  made  tributary,  in  high  degree,  to  her  virgin 
wants.  The  sire  of  the  Lady  Olivia,  who  had  left  it  for  his  child, 
in  the  keeping  of  his  brother,  had  made  it  after  the  fashion  of  his 


DON  BALTHAZAR'S  RETREAT.        25 

own  nature,  which  was  meek  in  its  desires,  and  a  worshipper  of 
the  graceful,  the  peaceful  and  the  beautiful.  The  luxuries  of  such 
an  abode  were  doubly  refined  and  spiritualized  to  the  soul  of 
taste,  by  the  sweet  repose,  the  delicious  security  which  hung,  as 
with  a  veil,  over  the  partial  solitude.  At  a  little  distance  lay  the 
white  dwellings  of  the  infant  city,  the  voices  of  its  daily  toil  and 
struggle  rising  only  as  a  faint  and  pleasant  murmur,  most  like 
the  sweet  chiding  of  distant  billows  on  a  rocky  shore.  The  sea,  at  a 
like  distance,  had  also  a  pleasant  music  for  the  dwellers  in  this 
forest  home,  where,  through  long  and  complicated  avenues  of 
greenest  foliage,  the  fond  and  contemplative  spirit  might  make  its 
way,  with  just  enough  of  the  consciousness  of  life  for  pleasure, 
and  not  enough  of  its  toils  and  apprehensions  for  anxiety  or 
cure. 

Here,  then,  with  few  attendants,  and  but  one  companion,  the 
subtle,  the  mercenary,  and  sleepless  politician,  Balthazar  de  Al- 
varo,  made  his  abode.  Hither  he  took  his  way,  with  slower  foot- 
step than  was  his  wont,  after  separating  from  the  adelantado. 
He  had  run  a  sort  of  gauntlet  of  inquiry,  as  he  emerged  from  the 
presence  of  De  Soto,  and  made  his  way  through  the  city,  by 
which  his  mood  had  undergone  no  peculiar  sweetening.  But  it 
was  admirable  to  witness  the  strength  of  a  much  exercised  and 
well-trained  will,  in  subduing  the  outbreaks  of  a  temper  wliich 
had  suffered  a  series  of  most  painful  provocations  throughout  the 
day.  He  could  smile  graciously  as  he  replied  deferentially  to  his 
equal ;  nor  was  he  wanting  in  a  certain  kind  of  smile,  when  he 
answered  the  inquiries  of  his  inferior.  The  necessities  and  ob- 
jects of  De  Soto  required  much  exercise  of  the  arts  of  concilia- 
tion on  the  part  of  his  associates ;  nor  was  Don  Balthazar  want- 
ing in  that  policy  which  teaches  that  none  are  too  humble  to  be 
incapable  of  harm  in  season — none  too  worthless  for  use  in  cer- 
tain periods.  He  traversed  the  interval  between  the  dwelling  of 
the  adelantado  and  his  own,  vexed  at  every  step  in  his  progress, 
yet  without  betraying  his  vexation  to  the  most  worthless 
spectator. 

It  was  only  when  he  reached  the  secure  shelter  of  his  own 
2 


26  -         VASCONSELOS. 

grounds  that  he  gave  freedom  to  his  real  emotions.  Throwing 
himself  upon  the  earth,  at  the  foot  of  a  noble  palm,  which  was 
encircled  by  a  dense  thicket  of  tributary  Vines  and  shrubs,  he 
yielded  to  speech  a  portion  of  the  troubles  which  had  weighed 
hitherto  in  silence  upon  his  mind. 

"  Now,  out  upon  this  fortune,  that  seems  ever  bent  to  break 
me  on  the  rack  of  fear.  You  put  your  foot  upon  one  danger, 
and  another  springs  up  from  its  seed.  A  thousand  times  have  I 
flattered  myself  that  all  was  safe — all  sure  ;  but  even  in  the  full 
feeling  of  exultation  the  doubt,  the  dread,  has  thrust  its  hideous 
face  before  my  own,  grinning  and  gibing  at  me,  with  the  per- 
petual threat  of  overthrow  and  exposure.  These  knights  of 
Portugal  are  the  black  dogs  that  hunt  upon  my  heels.  Would  I 
could  brain  or  bane  them  both  !  Are  they,  as  De  Soto  and  his 
lady  think  ? — is  he,  rather,  this  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  a  person 
to  be  feared  ?  Has  he,  indeed,  won  his  way  to  that  heart  1 — but 
no!  Olivia  de  Alvaro  cannot  soon  forget — cannot  hide  from 
sight — from  fear,  if  no  other  more  grateful  feeling,  those  memo- 
ries— that  consciousness — which  utterly  forbid  that  she  should 
become  the  wife  of  this  or  of  any  man — unless,  indeed,  in  the 
utter  depravation  of  nature,  and  the  utter  scorn  and  abandonment 
of  the  world.  And  where  would  such  a  condition,  for  her,  find 
the  faith  and  homage  of  this  Philip  de  Vasconselos  ?  Yet,  let  me 
not  deceive  myself.  She  is  no  longer  what  she  was.  She 
dreams — she  dotes — she  weeps — she  has  no  voice  for  song, — she 
who  sung  ever,  and  scarce  had  any  other  passion, — and  she 
broods,  to  utter  forgetfulnes  of  the  things  around  her — she,  who 
could  sing,  or  sin,  before,  without  any  thoughts  of  this  or  any 
other  world.  It  may  be  as  they  think.  What  theu  ?  Shall  she 
have  way  ?  Shall  this  knight  of  Portugal  have  way  ?  Shall' 
she  wed  with  him,  or  with  any,  to  my  ruin  and  Jisgrace  1  No  ! 
no !  It  is  but  to  ask  the  question  to  find  the  answer.  It  is 
here — it  is  here — either  in  my  dagger,  or  in  that  of  one  as  ready 
as  mine  own !" 

Such  was  the  soliloquy.  He  clutched  the  handle  of  his  wea- 
pon as  he  spoke,  and  half  drew  it  from  the  sheath.  But  he 


THE  FATHER'S  SOLILOQUY.  27 

• 

thrust  it  back  a  moment  after,  drew  his  cap  above  his  eyes,  and 
stretched  himself  along  upon  the  sward,  with  his  face  downward. 
Here  he  lay  in  complete  silence,  and  scarcely  stirring,  the  full 
space  of  half  an  hour.  Meanwhile,  the  day  waned.  The  sun 
was  at  his  setting,  and  the  night  birds  began  wheeling-,  with  faint 
shrieks,  about  the  place  where  he  seemed  to  slumber.  But 
slumber  was  not  upon  his  eyelids,  or  in  his  thoughts.  It  was  not 
his  necessity  just  then.  He  rose,  at  length,  with  the  deliberation 
of  one  who  has  recovered  the  full  sway  over  all  his  moods,  and, 
adjusting  his  garments,  prepared  to  move  towards  his  dwelling, 
which  was  still  at  some  distance,  and  hidden  wholly  from  his 
eyes  by  the  sinuosity  of  the  avenues,  and  the  denseness  of  the 
thicket.  But  he  paused  more  than  once  on  his  progress,  and, 
more  than  once,  did  words  of  brief  soliloquy  break  from  his 
lips. 

"  At  least,  I  must  soon  know  all.  There  must  be  an  explana- 
tion. I  must  fathom  her  secret.  I  must  probe  her  heart  to  its 
core.  If  that  be  safe — if  she  be  what  she  hath  been  sufficiently 
trained  to  be — what  such  training  indeed  should  have  made  her, — " 
and  a  grim  smile  passed  over  his  features  as  he  spoke, — "  then 
this  Philip  de  Vasconselos  can  do  no  hurt.  Let  him  live.  He 
will  scarcely  linger  here.  But  if  there  be  sentiment  in  her 
bosom,  newly  born  and  from  his  agency,  such  as  I  would  have 
trampled  out,  if  need  h£  in  blood  and  fire, — a  sentiment  hostile 
to  my  hold  upon  her — then  must  I  strike, — strike  fatally, — and 
crush  the  danger  hi  its  Very  bud.  But,  I  must  penetrate  her 
secret.  She  hath  grown  subtle  of  late, — that  is  an  evil  sign. 
It  is  enough  that  she  hath  a  secret,  and  from  me.  That  alone  is 
significant  of  danger !  Doth  her  reserve  signify  distrust  of 
me  ?  Ha !  what  else  1  Do  her  tears  manifest  a  feeling  for 
another  1  Then  is  it  a  proof  that  she  holds  me  in  hate  and 
loathing.  I  must  search,  fathom  this  mystery,  and  be  as  swift 
and  stern  as  I  am  vigilant !" 

This  speech  was  not  spoken  all  at  once,  but  in  snatches,  during 
his  walk,  and  each  soliloquy  compelling  his  momentary  pause. 
In  this  manner  he  went  forward,  his  features  and  manner  becom- 


23  VASCONSELOS. 

• 

ing  more  and  more  composed  as  he  approached  the  dwelling 
At  length  the  cottage  and  its  gay  verandahs  opened  before  him. 
and  he  paused  as  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  niece,  where  she  lay 
dreamily  reclining,  embowered  in  the  grateful  shades  of  the  tall 
trees  by  which  the  dwelling  was  surrounded. 

Olivia  de  Alvaro,  as  we  now  behold  her,  her  form  disposed 
at  ease,  stretched  on  ample  cushions,  in  the  airy  recesses  of  the 
verandah,  would  seem,  from  the  half-shut  eye,  and  the  almost 
motionless  attitude  in  which  she  lay,  to  have  been  wrapt  in  the 
most  grateful  slumbers.  She  was  evidently  unconscious  of  the 
rays  of  the  fast  disappearing  sunlight,  which  shot,  faint  and  bro- 
kenly, through  the  intervening  foliage.  She  was  a  pale,  proud 
beauty,  one  whose  high  and  aristocratic  features  seemed  scarcely 
consistent  with  that  despondency  of  mood  and  dependency  of  na- 
ture, which  have  been  described  as  her  present  characteristics. 
Her  features  were  not  regular,  but  there  was  a  strange  harmony 
between  them  nevertheless  ;  the  lofty  brow,  corresponding  well 
with  the  distinctly  rounded  chin, — the  large  and  well-formed 
nose,  and  that  '  drooping  darkness  of  the  Moorish  eye,'  which,  as 
we  know, — though  it  may  slumber  long  in  cloud  and  shadow, — 
is  still  capable  of  such  sudden  lightnings  as  consume  at  the  single 
flash.  We  have  already  described  her  as  very  young — scarcely 
more  than  seventeen  ; — but  this  youthfulness  was  not  marked  by 
the  usual  frankness — the  uncircumspect  Sid  exuberant  flow,  of 
that  period.  Her  countenance  was  marked  by  an  earnestness, 
an  intensity  of  gaze  and  expression,  which  denoted  a  maturity  of 
thought  and  feeling  quite  beyond  her  years.  It  is  surprising  how 
rapidly  one  lives,  who  has  learned  to  feel,  and  been  made  to  suf- 
fer. Yet  what  had  been  the  sources  of  suffering  in  her  ?  Rich, 
beautiful,  well-beloved,  what  were  the  cares  of  Olivia  de  Alvaro, 
by  which  she  had  grown  so  singularly  mature  ?  This  we  must 
ascertain  hi  future  pages.  Enough,  if  now  we  continue  the  des- 
cription of  her  person. 

She  was  tall,  and  of  commanding  figure  and  demeanor.  Her 
features,  significant  of  so  much  sweetness  and  beauty,  were  yel 
marked  by  a  tremulous  and  timid  sadness  of  gaze,  which  con  • 


OLIVIA  DE  ALVARO.  29 

veyed  the  impression  of  a  sense  of  awe,  compelling  her  fears,  and 
depressing  her  elasticity.  This  expression,  particularly  at  those 
moments  when  she  seemed  to  become  forgetful  of  every  other 
presence,  commended  her  to  sympathy,  rather  than  offended 
pride.  There  could  be  no  jealousy  of  her  superiority,  in  the  evi- 
dent feeling  of  apprehension  which  she  displayed.  A  vague 
sense  of  danger  seemed  to  accompany  the  consciousness  of  her 
charms  ;  and  the  effect  was  rather  to  humble  and  subdue  all  the 
loftier  indications  that  were  yet  inseparable  from  the  graces 
of  her  manner,  and  the  conscious  nobility  of  l^*od  and  beauty. 
To  these  she  was  by  no  means  insensible.  Her  carriage  was 
such  as  showed  an  habitual  appreciation  of  all  her  possessions ; 
yet  so  modified  as  to  make  nature  more  conspicuous  than  habit 
in  her  demeanor.  The  heart  of  a  young  damsel  naturally,  and 
very  soon,  becomes  sensible  of  the  beauties  of  her  person.  Her 
mirror,  and  the  common  language  of  society,  read  equally  in 
speech  and  manner,  soon  teach  her  all  the  value  of  her  charms. 
But  a  refined  taste  renders  it  impossible,  if  she  really  should  be 
attractive,  that  she  should  escape  this  conviction.  It  is  her  merit 
when  she  does  not  presume  upon  her  possessions,  and  is  modestly 
content  in  their  enjoyment.  It  is  in  due  degree  with  the  devel- 
opment of  her  intellect,  and  the  experience  of  afflictions,  that  she 
schools  her  vanity.  That  Olivia  de  Alvaro  had,  in  large  measure, 
learned  to  tutor  hers,  might  be  gathered  from  many  indications. 
That  she  was  not  insensible  to  her  own  charms,  was  equally  evi- 
dent from  the  exercises  in  which  she  employed  them.  Few  dam- 
sels knew  so  well  how  to  train  the  glance,  to  give  variety  and 
play  to  the  expressive  muscles,  and  the  pleasing,  persuasive 
action ;  to  subdue  to  sweetness,  and  the  most  touching  tender- 
ness of  tone,  the  murmurs  of  the  obedient  voice;  to  make  the 
fingers  speak,  as  with  an  endowment  of  their  own,  and  to  inform, 
with  a  nameless,  but  most  winning  flexibility,  every  movement 
of  the  well-regulated  and  exquisitely  symmetrical  figure.  Half 
sitting,  half  reclining,  in  the  western  verandah  of  the  dwelling, 
her  eyes  vaguely  pursuing  the  soft  and  fluctuating  play  of  the  eve- 
ning sunlight,  that  stole  in  golden  droplets,  as  it  were,  through 


30  VASCONSELOS. 

the  slightly  waving  leaves  of  the  anana  and  the  orange,  she  yet 
appeared  wholly  regardless  of  the  timid  brightness  that  sprinkled, 
as  with  fairy  eyes,  the  apartment  all  about  her  feet.  She  seemed 
to  muse  in  far  delicious  fancies,  that  made  her  wholly  uncon- 
scious of  the  actual  world  in  which  she  lived.  Her  person,  unre- 
strained by  any  human  presence,  had  naturally  subsided  into  an 
attitude  equally  graceful  and  voluptuous ;  and  this  was  altogether 
the  unstudied  action  of  a  grace,  which,  natural  always,  had  yet 
always  recognized  in  art  only  the  appointed  assistant,  the  tiring 
woman  and  hartfhnaid,  of  the  imperial  nature.  Her  dark,  glossy 
hair,  hung  upon  her  shoulders,  from  which  it  descended  in  waving 
but  massive  tresses.  The  art  which  had,  without  an  effort,  dis- 
posed their  flowing  and  magnificent  folds,  had  never  been  more 
successful  in  removing  all  proof  of  its  own  adorning  fingers. 
Slightly  stirred  by  the  fitful  zephyrs  of  an  afternoon  in  May,  that 
season  which,  in  Cuba,  recognizes  the  perfect  presence  of  the  full- 
bosorned  summer,  her  ringlets  played  upon  her  neck  like  young 
birds,  for  the  first  time  conscious  of  their  wings,  yet  still  flutter- 
ing, timidly  and  fondly,  about  the  parent  nest.  And  thus  she 
reclined,  clad  in  robes  of  white,  slightly  trimmed  with  blue  and 
orange,  seemingly  unconscious  of  all  things  but  those  which  were 
deeply  hidden  in  her  thoughts, at  the  moment  when  Don  Balthazar 
drew  nigh  to  the  dwelling. 

The  shrubbery  had  enabled  him  to  approach  unseen,  until 
within  a  few  steps  of  the  verandah.  He  could  detect  the  familiar 
outline  of  her  person  through  the  leaves  of  a  gorgeous  orange, 
beneath  which  he  stood  silently  beholding  her.  She  dreamed  not 
of  his  presence.  His  footstep  had  been  carefully  set  down,  as  if 
not  to  disturb  her ;  and  thus  unsuspected,  he  stood,  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, watching  her  with  a  singular  and  intense  interest.  Even 
thus  keen  and  concentrative  the  gaze  which  the  fascinating  serpent 
fastens  upon  the  unconscious  bird  that  flies  or  flutters  in  his  sight. 
It  was  not  malignity  or  hostility  that  was  apparent  in  the  expres- 
sion of  his  eyes.  Nay,  to  the  casual  spectator,  there  might  have 
seemed  fondness  only,  in  the  keen  and  earnest  interest,  which 
seemed  to  study  her  every  feature,  as  if  prompted  by  the  most 


BEAUTY'S  MEDITATIONS.  31 

paternal  affection.  And  yet  there  was  a  something  bitter  in  the 
smile  which  occasionally  played  upon  his  lips;  and  the  slight 
fimvn  which  darkened  in  his  glance  was  significant  of  a  disquiet 
or  disappointment,  the  sources  of  which  we  may  not  yet  compre- 
hend. Suspicion,  too,  might  be  seen  to  lurk  even  beneath  the 
sii file  of  the  observer,  and  his  secret  watch  might  have  been  dic- 
tated by  a  policy  which  was  not  above  the  indulgence  of  a 
baseness. 

And  yet  his  purpose  did  not  seem  to  be  espionage.  A  sudden 
and  troublesome  thought — perhaps  a  suddenly  suggested  curios- 
ity— appeared  to  arrest  his  footsteps  on  his  approach.  Her  ap- 
pearance, her  attitude,  seemed  to  invite  his  study.  It  was  to 
muse,  to  meditate,  or,  perhaps,  to  prepare  his  mind  for  some 
exigent  duty,  that  he  paused,  without  seeking  to  disturb  the  dam 
sel  in  her  vacant  mood.  She,  too,  had  her  causes  for  meditation; 
though  one  might  readily  ascribe  the  dreamy  languor  of  her  atti- 
tude to  the  bland  and  seductive  influences  of  the  climate.  To  the 
voluptuous  idler,  already  familiar  with  that  luxury  of  situation 
which  suspends  the  thought,  and  strips  the  fancy  of  everything 
but  wings,  her  appearance  would  seem  natural  enough,  and  her 
conjectured  reveries  would  only  be  the  most  grateful,  yet  unim- 
pressive in  the  world.  It  would  be  only  to  liken  her  bower  to 
the  wizard  domain  of  that  archimage  who  wove  his  perpetual 
snares  in  the  Castle  of  Indolence,  making  all  things  dreamy  and 
delusive  in  the  half-shut  eye.  But  the  meditations  of  Olivia  de 
Alvaro  were  of  a  sort,  perhaps,  even  more  deeply  troublesome 
than  those  of  her  uncle.  Big  tears  might  be  seen  to  gather  hi 
her  eye — slowly,  it  is  true,  and  few, — but  they  were  such  as  we 
seldom  look  to  see  in  the  eyes  of  young  and  innocent  loveliness. 
The  great  drops  silently  oozing  from  beneath  their  dark  and 
drooping  fringes,  like  some  gradual  stream  gliding  silently  forth 
from  the  shade  of  overhanging  alders,  were  not  unseen  by  her 
uncle.  His  features  became  graver  as  he  beheld  them,  and  he 
looked  aside — he  looked  down — as  if  anxious  to  shut  them  from 
his  sight.  He  turned  away  hastily  a  moment  after,  and,  with 
careful  footstep,  retreated  silently  from  his  place  of  watch.  Tak- 


32  VASCOXSELOS. 

ing  a  hasty  turn  through  the  deeper  ranks  of  foliage,  he  again, 
after  a  little  interval,  was  returning  in  the  direction  of  the  dwell- 
ing, when  his  ear  was  aroused  by  the  sound  of  approaching 
voices.  •  He  promptly  shrouded  himself  in  a  little  copse  of  gren- 
adilla.  Here  he  could  easily  distinguish  the  persons  of  the  visitors, 
himself  unseen.  In  a  few  moments  they  had  reached  the  spot 
where  he  stood  concealed.  They  proved  to  be^he  young  gallant, 
Nuno  de  Tobar,  and  his  frail  but  beautiful  betrothed,  in  whose 
behalf  we  have  seen  how  greatly  the  anger  of  De  Soto  had  been 
awakened.  She  was  a  pretty  creature,  light-hearted  rather  than 
wanton,  whose  happiness  was  now  wholly  complete,  and  whose 
faults  were  all  about  to  be  repaired.  They  walked  unconsciously 
beside  the  stern  Balthazar,  and  their  prattle  once  more  wrought 
his  features  into  that  sardonic  expression  so  natural  to  a  man 
who  despises  the  simplicity  of  young  affections.  They  were  on 
a  visit  to  the  lovely  Olivia,  to  whom,  we  may  say  in  this  place, 
the  betrothal  of  the  happy  couple  brought  at  once  a  pang  and  a 
pleasure.  We  must  leave  the  explanation  of  this  contradiction 
to  other  chapters. 

It  was  with  something  of  chagrin  and  disquiet  that  Don  Bal- 
thazar discovered  who  were  the  approaching  parties.  He  had 
almost  spoken  his  annoyances  aloud,  as  they  passed  onward  to 
the  cottage.  His  vexation  was  not  long  suppressed.  As  soon  as 
they  had  passed  into  the  verandah,  he  retired  from  his  place  of 
watch,  to  a  spot  of  greater  seclusion  in  the  groves,  and  the  pas- 
sionate soliloquy  to  which  he  gave  utterance  afforded  some  slight 
clue  to  the  nature  of  his  secret  meditations. 

"Now,"  said  he,  flinging  himself  down  upon  the  sward,  a  thick 
matting  of  grass,  like  that  of  the  Bermuda,  which  completely 
protects  the  garments  from  the  red  stains  of  the  earth.  "Now 
will  these  fools,  with  happiness  fancied  in  their  grasp,  possess  her 
spirit  with  all  the  passions  which  they  feel  themselves.  If  her 
mind  were  yet  free  from  any  fancy  in  behalf  of  this  knight  of 
Portugal,  they  would  do  much  towards  its  graffing.  They  will 
speak  in  raptures  of  hopes  which  they  dream  to  be  possessions, 
of  realities  which  seldom  live  through  a  season,  and  of  sentiments 


PKEPARING   FOR  THE   CONFLICT.  33 

which  few,  however  cheated  at  first,  but  live  to  curse  and  to  de- 
spise in  after  times.  This  Nuno.de  Tobar  is  the  sworn  friend  of 
Vasconselos.  He  will  labor  in  his  cause.  He  perhaps  knows  all 
his  secrets.  Perhaps  he  comes  even  now  as  an  emissary.  De- 
monios!  But  does  it  need  this?  Let  me  not  deceive  myself, 
though  I  would  shut  the  truth  from  other  eyes.  Can  I  doubt 
that  Olivia  de  Alvaro  looks  with  favor  on  this  knight1?  That  she 

loves  him — she,  the  but  hush!     The  thing  is  by  no  means 

an  absurdity.  The  insane  passion  does  not  stop  to  measure  its 
own  claims.  The  cloud  that  receives  and  swallows  up  the  star, 
has  no  shame  for  such  affrontery;  and  even  guilt  may  worship  with 
hope  at  the  altars  of  the  pure  and  beautiful.  I  cannot  doubt  that 
she  loves  him.  Else  why  this  change  since  he  came  upon  the 
island?  Why  these  tears — this  despondency — this  drooping  fear, 
— this  trembling  and  perpetual  cloud  and  apprehension?  She 
shrinks  from  other  eyes — from  mine.  Her  own  are  cast  upon 
the  earth,  or  closed  from  study.  Could  other  eyes  but  read,  like 
mine,  she  would  have  no  secret  to  reveal!  It  is  well  that  she 
dare  not  speak.  The  very  passion  that  she  feels  for  this  stranger 
is  my  security.  She  must  subdue  these  inclinations.  She  must  stiae 
this  working  fancy  which  these  meddling  fools  will  blow  into  a  flame. 
She  shall  stifle  it !  Fortunately,  I  am  her  will.  I  have  ever  led  her 
as  a  child.  She  has  known  no  impulses  of  her  own,  save  those  of 
infancy,  until  now  ;  and  she  will  scarcely  now  withstand  that  gov- 
erning rule  which  hath  hitherto  swayed  her  as  the  breezes  sway  the 
leaf.  I  would,  now,  that  this  had  not  been  the  case.  I  have  peril- 
led upon  a  moment  the  security  of  a  life;  but  regret  is  unavailing 
now.  I  must  continue  as  I  have  begun.  I  must  still  assert  the 
superior  will  of  a  master, — not  simply  to  secure  my  slave,  but  to 
assure  myself  of  safety.  It  will  be  easy,  and  why  should  I  scru- 
ple to  do  it  ?  Why  this  fear,  this  feebleness  ?  I  will  overcome 
it  as  before  !  She  shall  bend,  she  shall  bow,  or  break  hi  the 
conflict !  But  there  will  be  no  conflict.  She  will  offer  no  opposi- 
tion— none  that  I  cannot  soon  disarm.  Had  it  been  her  fierce 
Biscayan  mother,  I  should  have  no  such  victory.  She  would 
have  defied  me  in  her  paroxysm,  and  in  the  very  passion  of  her 
2* 


34  VASCONSELOS. 

rage,  she  would  have  left  no  secret  unrevealed,'  even  though  in- 
stant ruin  followed  on  her  speech.  Fortunately,  the  child  sucked 
nothing  from  the  mother.  She  hath  no  such  temper.  She  has 
the  gentleness  of  poor  Alphonso,  all  his  meek  submission,  his 
dread  of  strife,  his  shrinking  dislike  of  struggle  and  excitement. 
Had  he  not  been  so  weak  as  to  submit  to  her  tyranny,  he  had 
never  suffered  wrong  from  me.  Olivia  hath  his  feebleness  of 
will;  but  she  hath  warmer  sensibilities.  Still,  they  make  nothing 
against  my  power, — I  have  schooled  them  to  submission  and 
self-denial.  What  if  I  have  done  her  wrong — and  she  dreams 
not  yet  of  its  extent — yet,  even  if  she  knew  all,  no  desperation 
of  desire,  or  fear,  could  drive  her  to  resistance.  Here,  I  am  se- 
cure !  Unlike  her  fiery  dam,  she  is  too  heedful  of  the  world's 
voice  to  lift  her  own,  where  the  very  cry  which  would  crush  my 
fortunes,  would  leave  hers  wrecked  on  the  same  shoals.  On 
this,  I  hold  !  Here,  I  am  safe.  I  must  still  sway — still  maintain 
the  mastery — but  I  foresee  the  struggle.  I  see  it  in  those  tears, 
— in  that  deep  despondency ,— in  the  distaste  which  no  longer 
suffers  her  eyes  to  meet  the  gaze  of  mine, — in  the  cold  and  chill- 
ing word  which  checks  my  speech, — and  the  reserve,  almost  like 
aversion,  with  which  she  encounters  my  approach.  I  must  pre- 
pare for  the  struggle ; — but  shall  we  not  escape  it  all  if  we  once 
get  these  knights  of  Portugal  embarked"?  "But  how,  if  they 
resolve  to  stay  1  That  is  a  grief  that  must  find  its  own 
remedies !" 

We  care  not  now  to  pursue  our  subtle  politician  in  his  walks 
or  his  soliloquies.  Enough  has  been  shown  to  develop  the  sort 
of  temper  with  which  he  views  the  supposed  conquests  of  his 
lovely  niece,  over  the  affections  of  two  of  the  noblest  adventur- 
ers in  the  train  of  De  Soto.  These  had  not  been  her  only  con- 
quests. But  none  of  her  previous  suitors  had  ever  given  her 
uncle  any  cause  for  apprehension.  It  has  been  shown  that  he  is 
not  simply  averse  to  her  marriage  with  either  of  the  knights  of 
Portugal,  but  is  alike  hostile  to  the  claims  of  all.  As  the  guar- 
dian of  his  niece,  with  small  estates  of  his  own,  and  ample  pos- 
sessions of  hers,  to  manage,  his  disquiet  on  this  subject  may  well 


LOVE'S   TEACHINGS.  35 

be  supposed  to  arise  from  motives  of  most  singular  selfishness 
or  baseness.  But  Olivia  herself,  aware  of  his  aversion  to  her 
marriage,  has  really  no  notion  that  avarice  is  the  infirmity  of  hei 
uncle.  She  knows  but  little  of  his  individual  resources,  but  much 
of  himself.  She  has  seen  nothing  in  his  expenditure,  or  conduct, 
which  would  make  him  appear  in  her  eyes  to  be  a  mercenary. 
Her  minority  had  been  singularly  managed,  so  as  to  keep  her  in 
a  state  of  mental  vassalage,  quite  uncommon  on  the  island. 
She  had  been  kept  in  almost  complete  seclusion  until  the  appear- 
ance of  De  Soto  and  his  lady,  when  it  was  impossible  to  with- 
hold her  from  the  court ;  her  own  wealth,  her  father's  name,  and 
the  position  of  her  uncle,  equally  requiring  it.  Up  to  this  period 
she  little  dreamed  of  the  treasures  which  the  world  had  hi 
its  keeping.  She  little  knew  the  value  of  her  own.  But  in  the 
course  of  a  single  night  the  germ  of  passion  had  blossomed,  and 
Love  rapidly  maturing  beneath  its  fervid  warmth,  had  taught 
her  a  grief  in  teaching  her  a,  faith.  Alas  !  she  knew  not  till  now 
how  precious,  how  radiant  white,  must  be  the  first  offerings  de- 
manded for  its  shrine.  Leaving  the  uncle  to  pursue  his  moody 
walk  through  the  umbrageous  grounds  of  his  domain,  let  us  re- 
turn to  the  niece,  and  witness  the  reception  of  her  guests. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

"  But  a  month  ago, 

I  went  from  hence,  and  then  'twas  fresh 
In  murmur,  (as  you  know  -what  great  ones  do 
The  less  will  prattle  of)  that  he  did  seek 
The  love  of  fair  Olivia." — TWELFTH  NIGHT. 

THE  pleasant  laughter,  and  gay  voices  of  Nuno  de  Tobar,  and 
his  betrothed,  prepared  Olivia  de  Alvaro  for  their  approach.  The 
trace  of  tears  was  quickly  obliterated  from  her  eyes,  and  she 
strove  with  smiles  to  welcome  her  visitors.  Pride,  as  was 
alleged  by  her  uncle,  was  one  of  the  chief  securities  for  her 
strength,  no  less  than  for  his  safety.  She  was  one  of  those  who 
love  not  that  the  world  should  behold  or  suspect  their  sorrows. 
But  her  pride  was  rather  a  habit  than  a  passion.  She  had  other 
and  more  fiery  qualities  in  her  nature,  for  which  he  failed  to  give 
her  credit.  lie  deceived  himself  when  he  thought  he  knew  her 
thoroughly.  Some  of  her  characteristics  were  yet  in  abeyance, 
some  moods  and  passions  which  are  likely  to  confound  and 
astonish  him  hereafter.  But  these  hi  proper  season.  She,  her- 
self, is  perhaps  as  little  aware,  as  her  uncle,  of  her  natural 
endowments. 

Olivia  received  her  guests  on  the  steps  of  her  verandah.  The 
cloud  had  disappeared  from  her  face,  the  light  had  returned  to 
her  large  and  lustrous  eyes,  and  with  the  sweetest  voice  in  the 
world,  she  welcomed  them  to  an  abode  which,  to  the  casual 
visitor,  would  seem  to  be  entirely  secure  from  sorrow.  The 
young  creatures  who  now  entered  it,  themselves  newly  made 
happy,  were  certainly  not  the  persons  to  make  any  discovery  of 
the  latent  troubles  of  its  inmate  ;  and  assuming  the  happiness  in 
other  hearts,  which  they  felt  in  their  own,  they  poured  out  upon 
Olivia  a  torrent  of  congratulations,  which  it  required  considera- 

36 


LENORA   BORADILLA.  37 

ble  strength  of  endurance  to  withstand.  She  had  heard  of  their 
betrothal,  and  of  the  forgiveness  which  De  Soto  had  extended  to 
the  erring  gallant.  Society  at  that  day  in  Cuba  was  not  par- 
ticularly jealous  of  propriety.  That  Leonora  Bovadilla  had 
sinned,  found  its  sufficient  excuse  with  knight  and  lady,  in  the 
simple  fact  that  she  loved ;  and  it  was  only  with  that  class  of 
ancients,  of  her  own  sex,  who  had  survived  even  the  hope  of  a 
change  from  single  to  dependent  blessedness — a  number  singu- 
larly few  in  every  community — that  censure  claimed  the  privi- 
lege still  to  wag  a  slanderous  tongue  under  the  guise  of  a  jealous 
virtue.  Olivia  de  Alvaro  had  never  been  of  the  number  to 
reproach  the  poor  Leonora  for  her  lapse,  even  when  it  was 
doubtful  whether  the  sense  of  virtue,  the  sentiment  of  honor, 
or  the  feeling  of  love,  in  Nuno  de  Tobar,  would  prompt  him 
to  repair  his  wrong  according  to  the  worldly  usage,  by 
making  her  his  wife.  Having  known  her  as  a  thoughtless  child, 
without  guile  as  without  experience,  a  creature  of  extreme  levi- 
ty, but  without  any  impulses  to  evil  more  than  seemed  naturally 
to  belong  to  the  mercurial  temper,  Olivia  was  not  prepared  to  re- 
gard her  as  guilty,  because  she  had  been  weak.  She  was 
indulgent  in  proportion  as  the  world  showed  itself  severe.  She 
knew,  according  to  a  common  history,  that, 

"  Every  woe  a  tear  may  claim, 
Except  un  erring  sister's  shame," 

and  rising  above  the  prejudices  of  the  world,  as  much  through 
sympathy  as  generosity,  she  suffered  her  manner  towards  the 
frail  offender  to  show  none  of  those  harsher  aspects  which  for- 
ever insist  upon  its  faults.  On  the  contrary,  a  tender  solicitude 
seemed  desirous  to  soothe  the  humiliations  of  the  sufferer,  and 
make  her  forgetful  of  those  public  disgraces  which  she  could  not 
always  hope  to  escape.  Leonora  felt  all  this,  and  repaid  the 
kindness  of  Olivia  by  as  much  devotion  as  could  distinguish  a 
nature  so  thoughtless.  The  first  visit  which  she  made,  after  the 
reconciliation  of  her  guardian  with  her  lover,  was  that  which  we 
now  witness.  Of  course,  the  peculiar  case  of  the  visitors  was  not 


38  VASCONSELOS. 

one  to  be  spoken  of  openly.  The  silent  pressure  of  Leonora's 
hand  by  Olivia,  the  tender  kiss  which  she  impressed  upon  her 
cheeks,  and  the  single  tear  which  gathered  in  her  eye,  as  she 
whispered  a  hurried  word  of  congratulation,  sufficiently  assured 
the  former  of  the  continuance  of  that  sympathy  which  had  al- 
ready afforded  her  so  much  solace.  But  she  erred,  perhaps,  in 
ascribing  the  tear  to  the  sympathies  of  friendship.  Had  she  but 
beheld  the  big  drops  that  fell  from  the.  same  fruitful  fountains, 
but  a  little  while  before,  she  might  have  suspected  other  and 
more  selfish  sources  of  sorrow  in  her  friend. 

Seated  in  the  cool  shadows  of  the  verandah,  the  gay  Leonora 
soon  opened  her  stores  of  prattle.  She  had  gathered  all  the 
rumors  of  the  day,  and  she  was  impatient  to  unfold  them. 

"  And  O  !  dearest  Olivia,  have  you  heard  of  the  tournament  ] 
The  town  is  full  of  it.  It  is  to  be  the  greatest  and  the  gayest 
of  all  the  shows  that  we  have  had.  They  have  begun  the  pre- 
parations already.  Such  a  painting  of  shields  and  banners, — 
such  a  sharpening  of  swords  and  burnishing  of  lances, — such 
a  prancing  of  steeds — it  will  be  something  to  remember  a  thousand 
years  to  come !  Nuno  has  been  busy  since  noon  making  the 
arrangements.  The  adelantado  cannot  do  without  him.  He 
will  be  busy  for  a  week, — they  will  all  be  busy — your  knight,  as 
well  as  mine ;  for  you  know,  Olivia,  you  have  a  knight." 

The  other  shook  her  head  very  mournfully. 

"  Nay,  never  shake  your  head  ;  you  know  it  as  well  as  I — two 
of  them,  indeed ;  and  you  might  have  a  dozen,  if  you  were  not 
so  proud." 

"  Me  proud,  Leonora !"  reproachfully. 

"  No  !  no  !  I  don't  mean  that !  I  ought  to  know,  if  any  one, 
that  you  are  any  thing  but  proud.  I  should  have  said,  so  lofty — 
so  superior " 

"  Ah  !  you  mock  me,  child." 

"I  am  a  child;  but  I  don't  mock  you.  It  is  so.  I  believe  it 
all,  and  everybody  else  thinks  so.  I'm  sure  you'd  have  a  thou- 
sand suitors,  if  they  did  not  all  feel  that  they  are  unworthy  of 
your  smiles." 


LOVE   AND   AMBITION.  39 

The  hand  of  Olivia  was  passed  with  a  close  pressure  over  her 
brows.  Little  did  the  thoughtless  Leonora  dream  that  the  action 
was  occasioned  by  a  feeling  of  pain.  She  continued  : 

"  But  of  the  homage  of  the  knights  of  Portugal,  nobody  has  a 
question.  It  is  in  every  one's  mouth ;  everybody  sees  that  both 
the  brothers  love  you  to  distraction.  The  question  with  them  all 
is,  which  of  them  you  favor.  Now,  I  am  for  Don  Andres,  the 
younger  ;  but  Nuno— " 

Here  she  was  interrupted  by  a  look  from  her  betrothed,  for 
which  Olivia  was  properly  grateful.  The  subject  seemed  to  an- 
noy her. 

"  Hush,  hush,  dear  Leonora ! — Tell  us  of  the  tournament  rather. 
This  is  not  the  season  to  talk  of  love,  but  of  war.  See  how  the 
adelantado  treats  the  affections,  when  they  come  in  conflict  with 
hifl  ambition.  Who  so  lovely,  so  stately,  so  noble,  so  like  a 
Queen,  as  the  Lady  Isabella  1 — yet  will  he  leave  her,  a  newly- 
wedded  wife,  to  go  on  wild  adventures  against  the  Floridians. 
Fie  upon  such  chivalry,  such  devotion,  such  love !  What  need 
hath  he  of  further  wars  ? — hath  he  not  wealth  enough  from  Peru  ? 
— hath  he  not  grandeur  enough  as  Governor  of  this  goodly  island, 
and  reputed  one  of  the  noblest  cavaliers  of  Spain  ?  Methinks 
he  wantonly  flings  from  him  a  living  and  a  glorious  treasure,  for 
a  dream — for  a  shadow  which  will  mock  his  hope,  and  defraud 
him  of  all  his  happiness." 

Olivia  had  spoken  rapidly,  in  order,  possibly,  to  divert  the  in- 
terest of  her  companions  to  other  subjects.  In  speaking,  how- 
ever, of  the  projected  conquest  of  Florida,  she  yet  trenched  upon 
the  province  of  Nuno  de  Tobar,  and  indirectly  assailed  his  conduct 
also.  He,  too,  like  De  Soto,  had  acquired  the  love  of  a  young  and 
beautiful  woman  ;  he  had  formed  ties  equally  precious,  which  he 
was  about  to  abandon  at  the  calls  of  ambition ;  and  though  his 
state  was  neither  secure,  nor  his  possessions  great  like  those  of  the 
latter,  yet  the  imputation,  in  some  degree,  lay  against  him,  of  a 
like  disregard  to  the  claims  of  duty  and  domestic  life.  He  an- 
swered Olivia  after  the  usual  manner  of  knight-errants. 
"  And  how  else,  dear  lady,  can  chivalry  display  itself,  unless 


40  VASCONSELOS. 

by  deeds  of  arms  and  conquest  1  It  is  by  these  deeds  and  this 
conquest,  that  it  brings  home  tribute  to  Beauty,  and  crowns  love 
with  its  proper  jewels.  It  is  to  make  love  secure  in  state  and 
home,  and  refresh  its  bowers  with  lasting  delight,  that  it  encoun- 
ters peril  for  a  season,  the  laurels  and  rewards  of  which  shall  en- 
dure through  future  years.  Love  is  not  abandoned  when  the  wor- 
shipper carries  ever  with  him  in  his  heart  a  passionate  devotion, 
which  makes  him  cry  upon  the  beloved  one's  name  in  the  storm  of 
battle,  and  pray  for  her  prayers  in  the  tempests  of  the  deep,  which 
prompts  him  to  build  for  her  a  temple  in  waste  places,  and  to  en- 
wreathe  chaplets  of  her  favorite  flowers  in  forests  which  she  may 
never  see.  His  devotion  even  warms  with  distance,  and  he  re- 
members her  benuties  and  her  virtues  the  better  when  he  no 
longer  may  enjoy  them.  If  he  goes  forth,  it  is  with  the  purpose 
that  he  may  return  full-handed  with  spoils,  that  he  may  lay  at 
her  feet  in  guerdon  of  his  faith  and  homage." 

"Ah!  Senor,  you  phrase  it  well,  and  it  is  such  fine  eloquence 
that  for  a  season  reconciles  the  poor  heart  of  woman  to  too  many 
of  the  errantries  of  chivalry.  For  me,  I  confess,  'twould  better 
please  me  snould  my  knight  leave  to  others  the  storm  of  battle 
and  the  peril  of  the  seas.  Let  me  have  the  devotions  of  his 
heart  at  the  altars  of  home,  rather  than  in  the  forests  of  the 
Floridian.  Let  me  have  the  idol  of  my  eyes  always  present  to 
my  sight.  I  should  not  need  that  he  should  wander  away  from 
my  eyes  to  be  able  to  recall  his  virtues  and  grow  fond  of  his 
devotion." 

"Oh!  Fie,  Olivia,  dear, — you  h«*-e  no  sort  of  idea  of  what 
belongs  to  true  chivalry.  Why,  true  chivalry  lives  on  fighting 
and  conquest,  on  long  wanderings  over  sea  and  land,  into  places 
that  were  never  heard  of  before,  seeking  all  sorts  of  enemies  to 
overthrow,  and  coming  home  with  treasures  of  gold,  great  em- 
eralds, such  as  they  gather  in  Peru,  and  pearls, — pearls  by  the 
bushel.  They  gather  them,  Nuno  tells  me,  by  the  basketful 
among  the  Floridians.  Nay,  you  smile, — but  the  story  comes 
from  your  knights  of  Portugal — Philip,  the  elder,  has  been 
among  the  savages  in  that  country." 


A   FORMIDABLE   OPPONENT.  41 

"I  have  no  knights,  Leonora,  and  this  reminds  me  that  I  have 
really  no  interest  in  this  game  of  war  that  is  called  chivalry. 
Let  those  like  it  who  may.  Its  splendid  shows  do  not  beguile 
or  satisfy  my  imagination."  4 

"Ah!  but  they  will  in  the  tournament,  which  is  at  hand. 
Don't  tell  me  that  you  have  no  knight.  I  promise  you,  dear 
Olivia,  that  you  will  have  knights  enough  to  do  battle  for  your 
smiles,  and  to  wear  your  favors.  These  knights  of  Portugal 
will  not  be  the  only  ones  to  break  lances  in  your  honor.  But  let 
them  beware  how  they  cross  with  my  Nuno.  If  he  does  not 
unhorse  every  opponent,  I  will  never,  never,  never  love  him  any 
more.  And  that's  a  vow  to  the  Blessed " 

"Don't  be  rash,  Leonora,"  interrupted  Nuno,  with  a  smile. 
"You  may  punish  yourself  by  such  a  vow,  much  more  than  you 
could  ever  punish  me!" 

"Ha!  How?" 

He  evaded  the  query,  and  went  on. 

"As  for  overthrowing  these  knights  of  Portugal,  it  is  no  easy 
matter.  I  should  rather  cross  lances  with  any  other  foes!  Philip 
de  Vasconselos " 

"  How !  Are  you  recreant  ?  Will  you  allow  these  Portuguese 
to  pluck  the  honors  from  Castile  ?" 

"Nay,  nay!  not  if  I  can  help  it.  But  I  should  prefer  other 
hands  than  mine  to  make  the  attempt.  The  world  has  few 
lances  which  can  safely  cross  that  of  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  and 
mine,  I  fear,  is  not  one  of  them;  and  1  so  love  the  man  that  I 
should  find  no  satisfaction  in  depriving  him  of  a  single  glory 
that  he  desires.  But  something,  as  you  say* is  due  to  the  honor 
of  Castile,  and  if  Philip  overthrows  all  other  combatants,  he 
must  have  a  chance  of  including  me  among  his  captives." 

The  eyes  of  Olivia  were  cast  upon  the  ground.  But  her  ears 
drank  in  eagerly  every  syllable  which  had  fallen  from  the  gen- 
erous lips  of  Nuno  de  Tobar.  She  did  not  speak  when  he  had 
closed,  nor  for  some  time  after,  but  remained  apparently  a  silent 
listener  to  the  gay  and  desultory  prattle  of  Leonora,  who,  in  the 
fulness  of  her  heart,  assured  of  her  own  happiness,  and  relieved 


42  VASCONSELOS. 

of  all  doubts  of  the  future,  had  given  herself  up  to  that  fearless 
and  roving  method  which  but  too  commonly  distinguished  her 
mercurial  temper.  She  was  arrested  when  about  to  trench  upon 
dangerous  g|ound — when  about  to  renew  her  badinage  in  regard 
to  Olivia's  feelings  for  the  knights  of  Portugal, — by  the  appear- 
ance of  one  of  them.  Fortunately,  his  approach  had  been  heard 
in  season  to  prevent  her  speech. 

The  visitor  was  the  younger  of  the  two.  Andres  de  Vasconse- 
los  had  many  of  the  qualities  of  his  elder  brother,  Philip.  Their 
persons  were  not  unlike,  their  courage  and  the  contour  and  ex- 
pression of  their  faces.  They  had  both  served  as  well  against 
the  Moors  of  Spain  as  the  red-men  of  the  western  continent. 
But  Philip,  the  elder,  enjoyed  the  high  distinction  of  being  xisu- 
ally  understood  when  the  family  name  was  mentioned.  He  had 
done  famous  things  under  Almagro  in  Peru.  He  hud  once  before 
traversed  the  neighboring  continent  of  the  Appalachian,  at  least 
as  far  as  Cabeza  de  la  Vaca  had  carried  his  explorations.  He 
was  wise,  besides,  prudent,  circumspect  and  gentle,  and  these 
were  virtues  to  which  the  younger  brother,  Andres,  liad  but  little 
claim.  Of  Philip  we  shall  say  more  hereafter.  Of  Andres,  the 
world  spake  with  many  qualifications.  He  was  described  as 
proud  and  passionate — quick  of  quarrel — arrogant  in  his  assump- 
tions, and  of  enormous  self-conceit.  We  have  already  had  it  inti- 
mated that  he,  as  well  as  his  brother,  was  now  in  doubt  whether 
to  continue  in  a  future  progress  with  the  expedition  of  De  Soto. 
Yet  they  had  both  left  Spain  with  this  special  object,  coming  over 
to  the  New  World  as  a  portion  of  the  armament.  Something  of 
the  reason  for  therr  change  of  purpose  has  already  been  sug- 
gested. They  had,  in  fact,  found  but  little  encouragement  from 
the  adelantado, — less,  perhaps,  because  of  Ms  inappreciation  of 
their  merits — for  he  thought  of  the  brothers  very  highly — as  in 
consequence  of  the  bigotry  and  jealousy  of  the  Spanish  Chief- 
tains — their  clannish  prejudices,  and  a  somewhat  painful  sense  of 
their  inferiority,  at  least,  to  the  elder  of  the  knights  of  Portugal. 
The  neglect  of  De  Soto  had  followed,  perhaps,  inevitably  on  this 
of  his  people.  The  brothers  had  been  offered  no  dis- 


A   HOPELESS  SUIT.  43 

(factions  in  the  army,  and  as  their  military  passion  became  cooled, 
that  of  love  made  its  appearance  to  assist  in  usurping  the  place  of 
the  former  in  their  bosoms.  Unhappily,  their  affections  were 
fixed  upon  the  same  lady.  The  devotion  of  Andres  de  Vascon- 
sclos  led  him  almost  nightly  to  her  dwelling.  Philip  was  a  fre- 
quent visitor;  but  he  so  chose  his  periods  as  seldom  to  cross  his 
brother's  progress.  Andres  little  knew  how  much  he  owed  to 
this  forbearance.  He  was  slow  to  perceive,  what  was  seen  by  all 
the  island,  that,  if  the  heart  of  Olivia  de  Alvaro  inclined  to  either, 
he  certainly  was  not  the  suitor  whom  she  most  preferred.  His 
self-esteem  was  not  willing  to  accept  any  such  humiliating  sug- 
gestion. 

Olivia  naturally  received  him  with  respect  and  kindness.  She 
felt  uneasy  at  his  attentions,  but  she  respected  him  because  of  her 
attachment  to  his  brother.  It  was  easy,  with  his  temper,  to  mis- 
taka  the  sources  of  this  kindness.  But  he  was  not  suffered  to 
presume  upon  it.  A  certain  dignified  but  mild  reserve,  in  the 
manners  of  the  lady,  served  to  check  every  feeling  of  overweening 
confidence,  and  to  satisfy  the  bold  gallant  that  the  fortress  must 
undergo  a  regular  leaguer  before  the  garrison  would  be  persuaded 
to  surrender.  He  endeavored  accordingly  to  school  his  eager  de- 
sires, with  as  much  patience  as  he  could  command;  and  to  lessen 
the  duration  of  the  siege,  his  attacks  were  rendered  more  and 
more  frequent.  It  was  seldom  that  a  night  was  suffered  to  pass 
without  finding  him  in  her  presence ;  and  the  gentleness  of  her  re- 
ception, and  the  sweetness  of  her  manners,  seldom  suffered  him 
to  leave  her  without  giving  his  eager  vanity  sufficient  assurance 
of  favorable  progress.  She  beheld  this  confidence  with  pain,  and 
her  reserves  were  increased  accordingly  ; — but  as  these  never  put 
on  harsh  aspects,  nothing  was  done  to  arrest  the  self-delusion  of 
the  lover. 

A  little  awkwardness  succeeded  his  first  appearance  within  the 
circle.  Nuno  de  Tobar  was  the  friend  of  Philip  de  Vasconselos 
rather  than  his  brother.  He  had  never  been  altogether  satisfied 
with  the  latter.  He  was  aware  of  the  attachment  of  both  for 
his  fair  hostess — perhaps  suspected  the  nature  of  her  feelings  for 


44  VASCONSELOS. 

his  friend — and  knew,  besides,  that  the  younger  brother  had 
already  begun  to  regard  his  senior  with  a  feeling  of  rivalry. 
Andres  was  naturally  jealous  of  one  whom  he  had  reason  to  be- 
lieve was  in  his  brother's  confidence;  while  Nuno  de  Tobar, 
though  fond  of  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  had  anything  but  a  friendly 
feeling  for  Andres.  The  imperious  temper  of  the  latter  had,  more 
than  once,  brought  them  to  the  verge  of  quarrel.  Their  inter- 
change of  civilities  on  the  present  occasion  was  cold  and  formal ; 
and,  though  the  fair  hostess,  seeing  the  feeling  between  them, 
made  an  amiable  effort  to  interest  the  party,  still  the  atmosphere 
for  a  while  grew  oppressive  from  mere  stiffness  and  formality. 
But  the  confidence  of  Andres  de  Vasconselos  was  of  a  sort  not  to 
permit  this  influence  to  prevail  to  his  discomfiture ;  and  a  per- 
severance that  suffered  no  discouragement  from  a  freezing  answer, 
was  soon  rewarded  by  a  conversation,  which,  if  not  actually  ani- 
mated, was  yet  sufficiently  so  to  keep  the  scene  from  becoming 
absolutely  oppressive.  By  a  strong  effort  of  will,  for  which  her 
previous  exercise  had  not  often  prepared  her,  Olivia  took  a  rea- 
sonable share  in  the  dialogue,  and  Don  Andres  was  encouraged  to 
proceed  as  he  found  her  interest  somewhat  rising  in  one  of  the 
subjects  which  was  started.  This  was  the  affairs  of  the  army  and 
the  expedition,  and  naturally  enough  of  the  tournament.  The 
thoughtless  speech  of  Leonora  conducted  her  to  an  inquiry,  the 
answer  to  which  drew  the  eyes  of  Olivia  directly  upon  the 
knight  of  Portugal. 

"  They  say  of  thee  and  of  thy  brother,  Don  Andres,  that  ye 
are  not  minded  to  proceed  on  this  expedition  into  the  country  of 
the  Floridian  ?" 

"  Of  what  Philip  de  Vasconselos  designs,  fair  lady,  it  would  be 
presumption  in  me  to  conjecture.  Of  my  own  purpose  I  can 
say  nothing,  but  that  it  is  still  subject  to  such  moods  as  may  pre- 
vail with  me  when  the  adelantado  is  about  to  depart." 

"  Well,  for  my  part,  I  see  not  how  such  brave  cavaliers,  well  re- 
nowned in  sword,  and  battle-axe,  and  spear,  can  hold  it  doubtful 
what  they  shall  do  when  the  trumpet  invites  them  to  glorious  en- 
terprise ;  nor  do  I  question  that  when  the  signal  sounds,  thou 


AGREEABLE   DELUSION.  45 

wilt  bo  among  the  first  to  hear  and  answer;  But,  of  a  surety, 
thou  wilt  not  be  wanting  to  the  tournament." 

"  And  yet,"  answered  the  knight  of  Portugal,  with  a  smile 
that  might  have  been  nastaken  for  a  sneer,  "  were  it  not  as  great 
a  rashness  if  I  should  venture  in  a  passage  at  arms  with  such  for- 
tunate gallants  as  Don  Nuno  de  Tobar,  who  wears  the  favors  of 
one  of  the  loveliest  damsels  of  Cuba  ?  It  will  need  something 
more  than  skill  and  valor  to  render  a  poor  knight  of  Portugal 
successful  against  the  cavaliers  of  Castile,  when  they  couch  spear 
under  the  smiles  of  the  most  invincible  beauty." 

There  was  something  equivocal  in  this  remark  that  made  Nuno 
de  Tobar  wince,  but  his  betrothed  did  not  perceive  it.  She  went 
on,  slily  glancing,  as  she  spoke,  at  the  pale  face  of  Olivia,  which 
put  on  an  increasing  gravity  as  she  listened. 

"  Yet  seems  it  to  me,  Senor,  that  thou  wilt  scarcely  lack  in  the 
auspices  which  befriend  thy  opponent.  I  doubt  not  but  the 
smiles  of  Beauty  will  give  thee  sufficient  encouragement.  fAt 
least,  it  is  scarcely  fitting  that  a  true  knight  should  suffer  from 
such  want." 

The  eyes  of  Andres  de  Vasconselos  followed  those  of  Leonora, 
as  she  looked  mischievously  in  the  direction  of  her  friend.  The 
reference  was  quite  unfortunate.  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
resolute  gravity  which  absolutely  gloomed  the  features  of  Oli- 
via. But  her  face  was  no  longer  pale.  A  warm  flush  rose 
upon  her  cheeks  at  the  same  moment,  of  the  source  of  which 
Don  Andres  readily  deceived  himself.  His  vain  and  eager  fancy 
easily  construed  this  flush  into  a  confession  of  weakness, — and  a 
proud  exulting  glance,  which  he  did  not  seek  to  restrain,  betrayed 
to  Olivia  the  delightful  conviction  which  he  felt.  But  her  eyes 
made  no  answer  to  his  own,  and  the  flush  passing  immediately 
from  her  cheeks,  was  succeeded  by  ait  almost  mortal  paleness, 
which  was  by  no  means  diminished  while  Andres  continued  to 
speak  in  answer  to  the  grateful  suggestions  of  Leonora.  He  had 
his  reply,  full  of  empressewent,  to  the  pleasing  insinuation  which 
she  had  conveyed,  quite  as  much,  perhaps,  by  the  direction  of  her 
glance,  as  by  the  language  which  she  had  uttered.  His  reply, 


46  VASCOXSELOS. 

though  the  mere  words  might  disclaim  his  sense  of  triumph,  was 
yet  distinguished  by  a  manner  which  betrayed  the  most  confident 
assurance. 

"  Alas  !  Lady  Leonora,  thou  wouldst^betray  me  to  my  ruin  ! 
Would  I  could  rejoice  in  any  such  hope  as  that  which  thou  en- 
couragest.  But  how  should  it  be  for  me,  a  poor  knight  of 
Portugal,  by  no  means  in  favor  with  your  proud  nobles  of  Cas- 
tile, to  hope  for  better  countenance  from  her  proud  and  lovely 
daughters  ?  Yet  the  bird  will  spread  his  wings  for  the  mansions 
of  the  sun !  The  fond  insect  will  dart,  though  it  be  to  perish, 
into  the  blazing  flame  or  pyre  ; — and  I  fear  that,  hopeless  of  the 
glory  that  1  seek,  and  destined  to  equal  peril  in  the  pursuit,  I 
too  am  ambitious  of  the  prize  that  but  mocks  my  best  endea 
vor." 

"  Thou  confessest  then — thou  lovest  1"  was  the  eager  inquiry 
of  the  gay  and  thoughtless  Leonora. 

'^Ah  !  wouldst  thou  possess  thyself  of  my  secret?  That  were 
only  to  make  merry  with  my  weakness.  Surely,  in  the  good 
fortune  which  has  smiled  upon  thy  heart,  it  were  scarcely  gener- 
ous to  find  a  pleasure  to  show  to  the  world  the  disappointments 
which  mock  the  desire  now  preying  hopelessly,  perchance,  upon 
mine." 

"  Not  hopelessly,  not  fruitlessly,  Senor  Andres !  Verily, 
Sen  or,  that  is  a  speech  more  gallantly  than  truly  spoken.  I  will 
not  believe  that  thou  thinkest  so  humbly  of  thy  hopes,  or  of  the 
noble  qualities  which  thou  bring' st  into  the  field,  as  potent 
against  the  maidens  as  against  the  lances  of  Castile.  As  I  know 
that  our  cavaliers  esteem  thee  one  of  the  best  warriors  in  our 
array,  so  am  I  sure  that  our  ladies  look  upon  thee  with  a  favor 
which  does  not  misbeseem  thy  reputation  as  a  knight." 

The  flattery  was  not  lost  upon  the  person  addressed.  He  was 
in  the  mood  to  believe  every  syllable ;  and  indeed,  the  thought- 
less woman,  rating  the  judgment  of  her  friend  by  her  own,  was 
well  prepared  to  believe  that  the  preference  of  Olivia  was  be- 
stowed rather  upon  the  younger  than  the  elder  brother.  Don 
Andres  was  not  unwilling  to  continue  a  conversation  whk-h 


A  SEASONABLE  DIVERSION.  47 

seemed  to  bring  him  so  much  nigher  to  his  f  object.  He  did  not 
see  the  painful  constraint  which  sat  upon  the  features  of  Olivia. 

"  Ah  !"  was  his  reply.  "  But  he  who  haih  set  his  affections 
upon  the  bird  of  paradise,  can  give  but  little  heed  to  the  plum- 
age or  the  strains  of  inferior  songsters." 

His  eyes  again  sought  the  pale  countenance  of  the  maiden 
whom  he  worshipped.  Her  glance  was  equally  wandering  and 
sad.  Nu:io  de  Tobar  saw  that  she  was  troubled.  He  himself 
was  dissatisfied  with  the  thoughtless  play  of  his  betrothed.  He 
felt  its  mischievous  tendency,  and  his  friendship  for  Philip  de 
Vasconsclos  made  him  unwilling  to  behold  a  progress  on  the 
part  of  his  brother  which  was  adverse  to  his  own.  He  inter 
fered  to  effect  a  diversion  of  the  topic,  which  the  fanciful  allusion 
of  Don  Andres  now  enabled  him  to  do  without  an  effort. 

"  Talking  of  birds  and  singing,  dear  Lady  Olivia,  reminds  me 
that  in  the  cares  of  the  camp,  and  in  my  long  term  of  disfavor, 
I  have  not  enjoyed  thy  music  for  a  weary  season.  I  pray  thee, 
favor  us  with  some  one  of  those  many  ditties  which  never  come 
with  due  effect  save  from  those  who  feel  them.  I  would  1  could 
persuade  thee  to  one  of  those  antique  ballads  of  El  Cid ;  but  I 
will  not  ask  thee,  remembering  the  flat  denial  which  thou  gavest, 
in  my  presence,  to  that  fine  courtier,  De  Sinolar,  when  he  craved 
the  ballad  of  Urraca,  and  the  Moor  who  lost  Valencia.  Nath- 
less,  some  other  strain,  I  pray  thee,  if  it  be  only  to  persuade 
Dona  Leonora  that  Nuno  de  Tubar  is  not  so  entirely  her  slave 
that  he  dare  not  seek  a  favor  at  the  hands  of  another  beauty.  I 
trust,  Sefior  Andres,  that  thy  ear,  like  mine,  is  accessible  to  all 
the  charms  of  music." 

"  Verily,  Senor,"  was  the  reply,  "  that  depends  entirely  on  the 
bird  that  sings.  There  are  some  whose  plumage  makes  marvel- 
ously  against  their  strains.  That  thou  hast  had  the  wit  to  entreat 
from  the  Lady  Olivia  that  bounty  which  it  has  been  my  first 
thought  to  solicit,  is  a  great  vexation.  But  I  must  content  my- 
self now  with  repeating  thy  entreaty." 

The  cavaliers  both  looked  pleadingly  to  Olivia  as  they  spoke. 
But  she  needed  no  second  soliciting.  She  was  not  one  of  those 


48  VASCONSELOS. 

whose  vanity  require*  persuasion,  as  well  as  audience ;  besides, 
she  was  only  too  anxious  to  escape  a  further  dialogue,  which 
pained  her  something  more  than  either  of  the  parties  present 
could  imagine.  She  was  not  one  of  that  common  company  who 
delight  in  the  imputation,  so  grateful  to  the  vulgar  damsel,  of 
cpnquests  which  they  have  made  ;  and  resented  naturally,  as  of- 
fensive no  less  to  -decency  than  good  taste,  a  reference  of  this 
nature  in  the  presence  of  the  very  person  who  is  suspected  of  feel- 
ing their  authority.  But  there  were  deeper  sensibilities  besides 
these  at  work  within  her  bosom,  to  prompt  her  to  revolt  at  the  con- 
versation, and  the  diversion  of  Nuno  de  Tobar  was  eagerly  seized 
upon  as  affording  relief  to  troubled  feelings.  She  had  ah  eady 
taken  the  guitar  ere  Don  Andres  had  finished  speaking,  and.  after 
a  few  soft  prelusive  touches,  with  a  voice  that  trembled  with  her 
emotions,  though  full  of  compass  and  power,  she  sang  in  the 
happiest  style  of  art,  yet  with  the  most  easy  execution,  the  fol- 
owing  ballad,  which  seemed  in  some  degree  designed  as  a  com- 
mentary upon  the  preceding  conversation : 

AMINA. 

Now  why  does  fair  Amina, 

With  gallaut  suitors  near, 
Still  scornful  hark  the  pleading 

That  woos  no  other  ear  ? 

Great  nobles  seek  her  beauty, 

And  knights  for  valor  known, 
And  wealth  displays  its  treasure, 

Yet  still  she  keeps  her  own. 

She  answers  sighs  with  silence, 
And  heeds  not,  though  she  hears 

The  sorrows  of  the  bosom, 
That  worships  her  in  tears. 

A  scornful  song  requites  them, 
With  answer  such  as  shakes 
The  strong  heart  with  its  mockery — 

The  feeble  one  it  breaLs ! 


THE  SONG.  49 

And  thus,  while  all  are  watchful, 

Each  eager  in  his  quest, 
She  answers  for  the  bosom 

In  maiden  freedom  blest : 

**  Ye  call  me  now  your  mistress, 
Ye  bow  beneath  my  word  ; 
To  change  were  sorry  wisdom, 
The  subject  to  the  Lord. 

"  I  know  ye  well,  my  masters, 
The  gentlest  of  your  kind, 
To  him  who  flics  in  freedom, 
The  sternest  where  ye  bind. 

"  'Tis  sweet  to  have  your  homage, 
'Tis  sweet  to  hear  you  plead, 
And  know  that  for  our  beauty's  prize 
Ye  do  each  valiant  deed. 

"  How  well  ye  speed  in  tourney, 
How  gallant  grace  the  hall ; 
How  sweetly  in  the  twilight  groves 
Your  pleading  murmurs  fall ! 

"  Your  eloquence  how  gracious, 

Your  song  forever  sweet, 
That  lifts  the  heart  on  pinions 
As  exquisite  as  fleet. 

"  Too  precious  to  the  maiden 

These  treasures  while  they're  true  : 
And  sad  to  think,  if  change  in  her, 
Should  work  a  change  in  you. 

"  If  'tis  to  win  our  favor 

Your  graceful  arts  are  shown, — 
If  valor  strikes  thus  nobly, 
That  Beauty  may  be  won — 

"  If  'tis  for  this  the  palace 

Your  courtly  graces  sees, — 
For  this  ye  plead  in  twilight  bower, 
With  homage  sure  to  please — 


50  VASCONSELOS. 

"  How  great  the  fear  of  Beauty, 

If,  when  ye  gain  the  prize, 
Ye  deem  no  longer  needful 
The  grace  that  won  her  eyes ! 

"  Ye  sing  but  for  your  mistress — 
Ye  sing  not  for  your  slave. — 
And  give  no  more,  the  object  won, 
The  worship  that  ye  gave. 

"  I  will  not  brook  a  peril, 

That  sounds  of  joy  the  knell ; 
And  will  not  yield  my  heart  to  love, 
Because  I  love  so  well." 

The  song  was  finished;  and  as  the  maiden  laid  the  instrument 
aside,  a  storm  of  gentle  reproaches  fell  upon  her  ear,  as  well  from 
Nuno  de  Tobar  as  from  the  youthful  knight  of  Portugal. 

"Nay,  nay !"  exclaimed  the  fair  Leonora  de  Bovadilla — "  heed 
her  not,  heed  her  not !  She  thinks  not  as  she  sings.  She  has 
chosen  this  ballad  in  a  perverse  spirit,  only  to  mock  what  I  have 
been  saying.  She  is  sworn  hi  her  secret  heart,  well  I  know, 
against  all  such  inhuman  selfishness.  Out  upon  your  damsels  like 
Amina  !  She  was  but  a  Moorish  damsel,  I  trow,  and  her  heart 
was  given  up  to  heathen  divinities." 

"  And  love  himself  is  one  of  them,"  said  De  Tobar  archly. 

"  Not  our  love,  Don  Nuno — not  the  love  known  to  chivalry, 
and  before  whose  altars  the  true  knight  first  buckles  on  his  spurs. 
He  hath  his  birth  in  the  gay  regions  of  Provence — a  cavalier  him- 
self, belted  and  spurred,  with  the  addition  of  a  pair  of  wings.  See 
you  what  John  of  Nostrodamus  writes  of  him,  and  you  will  be 
satisfied  that  he  is  not  of  heathen  origin — a  pure  Christain,  a  no- 
ble and  a  gentle — from  whom  comes  the  religion  of  the  belted 
knight." 

And  the  Portuguese  chaunted  the  original  description  from  the 
ballad  of  the  Troubadour. 

"  Censure  not  the  Moor,"  said  Olivia  to  Leonora  gently — "  you 
know  not  that  I  somewhat  share  hi  the  blood  of  that  misguided 
people." 


DON  ANDRE'S  THEOLOGY.  51 

"  But  not  of  ',he  infidel  ?"  replied  the  othor  with  a  sort  of  holy 
horror,  crossing  herself  devoutly  as  she  spoke. 

"No,  surely,  but  of  a  family  that  haply  beheld  the  blessed 
light  of  the  Christian  Church,  and  of  their  own  free  will  sought 
baptism.  But  the  ballad  1  have  sung  comes  not  from  the  Moor. 
It  is  pure  Castilian.  The  damsel  Amina  was  of  the  true  faith." 
"  Ay,  lady,  but  she  sang  not  wisely,  knowing  the  wants  of  our 
sex,  and  the  better  virtue  in  her  own.  Her  ballad  is  in  the  per- 
verse spirit  of  the  Moor,  who,  with  the  true  heaven  in  his  eye,  yet 
wilfully  turned  away  his  sight.  In  heart  she  was  but  a  pagan. 
It  suits  the  creed  of  one  who  found  in  his  slave  the  thing  of  his 
affections.  Of  such  only  is  it  permitted  to  think  ill  of  knighthood, 
and  to  stifle  all  the  free  faith  in  the  heart  of  woman.  It  suits  for 
a  reproach  to  a  race  of  misbelievers,  who,  though  they  bore  them- 
selves manfully  enough  in  battle,  were  yet  little  familiar  with  the 
laws  of  Christian  chivalry.  The  true  knight  loves  not  less  the 
treasure  because  it  hath  been  won.  If  he  keeps  it  no  longer  in 
his  eye,  it  is  because  he  hath  conveyed  it  to  his  heart.  If  he 
boasts  no  longer  of  its  beauty,  it  is  because  he  fears  to  tempt  the 
avarice  of  others  to  seek  his  treasure.  If  he  sings  no  longer  in 
her  praise,  it  is  because,  when  he  hath  wholly  given  himself  up  to 
her  charms,  as  he  doth  by  marriage,  he  hath  said  the  most  in  her 
honor  that  could  be  spoken.  Verily,  I  repeat,  your  Amina  was 
but  a  wretched  heathen  in  heart,  cold  and  selfish,  and  her  doctrine 
is  only  true  of  a  people  who  believe  with  the  infidel." 

Such  was  the  eloquent  commentary  of  Don  Andres,  conveyed 
in  a  manner  at  once  spirited  and  graceful. 

"  Thou  hast  made  a  right  good  and  proper  defence  of  thy  sex 
and  mine,  Don  Andres,"  exclaimed  Leonora,  "  and  I  trow  thou 
wilt  never  lack  lady's  favor  to  grace  thy  helmet  in  the  fields  of 
tourney.  Thou  wilt  take  thy  part,  I  trust,  in  the  tournament 
which  the  adelantado  has  appointed: thou  and  thy  valiant  brother, 
even  if  ye  go  not  on  the  enterprise  against  the  Floridian." 

With  the  mention  of  his  brother,  the  eyes  of  Don  Andres  were 
seen  suddenly  to  sparkle  with  a  keen  and  fiery  expression.  Nuno 
de  Tobar,  knowing  the  conscious  rivalry  that  existed  between  the 


52  VASCONSELOS. 

two,  watched  him  with  interest,  but  said  nothing.  But  Don  An- 
dres was  not  so  forbearing. 

"  Philip  de  Vasconselos  must  answer  for  himself,"  said  he, 
somewhat  equivocally — "we  are  both  of  us  sufficiently  old  to 
adopt  our  resolutions  without  much  consultation  with  one  another." 

With  these  words  he  passed  quickly  from  the  subject.  The 
evening  was  not  much  longer  protracted,  and  soon  De  Tobar  and 
his  betrothed  took  their  departure,  leaving  the  knight  of  Portugal 
behind  them.  They  were  not  conscious,  as  they  descended  the 
verandah  into  the  groves  leading  from  the  dwelling,  of  the  move- 
ments of  another  who  led  the  way  through  the  shady  thickets. 
This  was  no  other  than  Philip  de  Vasconselos  himself.  Let  us 
not  imagine  that  he  had  been  a  listener.  He  had  been  making 
his  way  to  the  abode  of  Olivia,  when  arrested,  almost  on  the 
threshold,  by  the  voice  of  his  brother.  He  was  about  to  retire, 
as  he  had  usually  done  under  the  same  circumstances. 

"  Let  him  have  all  the  chances,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  as 
he  turned  away."  "He  was  the  youngest  born  of  our  mother, 
and  had  her  fondest  blessing.  It  were  a  grievous  sorrow  if  he 
had  not  mine." 

Just  then  the  voice  of  Olivia  in  song,  detained  his  departing 
footsteps.  He  leaned  sadly  against  a  tree  while  he  listened  to 
the  satirical  ballad  with  which  the  damsel  had  answered  the  so- 
licitations of  his  brother.  The  sentiment  of  the  ballad  was  no 
less  ungracious  in  his  ears  than  in  those  of  Andres ;  and  yet 
there  was  a  secret  feeling  of  satisfaction  in  the  heart  of  Philip^ 
that  the  ditty  had  been  chosen  in  response  to  the  prayer  of  a 
rival.  He  retired,  with  mingled  feelings,  from  his  place  of  watch, 
as  the  song  ended,  and  strolled  slowly  through  the  alleys.  In  a 
little  while  he  heard  the  footsteps  and  the  voices  of  De  Tobar  and 
his  companion,  behind  him,  and  perceived,  with  a  pang,  that  his 
brother  did  not  Accompany  them.  His  pace  was  hurriedly  in- 
creased. He  felt  all  the  delicious  opportunity  which  Andres 
enjoyed,  and  readily  conjectured  that  it  was  with  a  special  purpose 
that  the  latter  remained  after  the  departure  of  her  other  guests. 

"  Well !"  he  murmured  to  himself  sadly,  "  be  it   so  !     If  he 


A  LOVER'S  QUIETUS.  53 

hath  the  word  with  which  to  win  her,  she  is  his  !  I  will  not  envy 
my  brother.  I  would  I  had  the  strength  to  pray  that  he  might 
be  successful.  He  hath  wronged  me — he  will  still  wrong  me — 
and  I  will  submit.  He  shall  find  in  me  no  willing  rival,  whether 
in  love  or  war.  Our  mother  gave  him  to  my  care.  1  will  think 
of  her  love,  though  he  may  never  do  justice  to  mine." 

The  field  was  clear  before  Andres  de  Vascoriselos.  He  was 
alone  with  the  woman  whom  he  loved.  He  was  not  the 
man  to  lose  time,  or  dally  long  in  a  fruitless  attendance  at  the 
shrine  of  his  devotions  without  making  his  petition  heard.  He 
was  one  of  those  impetuous  spirits  whose  fierce  and  eager  will,  in  the 
assertion  of  its  desires,  is  apt  to  blind  to  the  prospect  of  defeat — 
to  all  prospect  save  that  which  is  beheld  through  the  medium 
of  a  passionate  and  almost  frenzied  hope.  Scarcely  had  Nuno  de 
Tobar  and  his  betrothed  disappeared,  before  he  was  at  the  feet 
of  Olivia.  But  not  for  us  to  watch  the  progress  of  the  brief  but 
exciting  scene  which  followed.  Let  it  suffice  that  ere  many 
minutes  had  elapsed,  Andres  de  Vasconselos  was  also  speeding 
away  from  the  abode,  darting  headlong  through  the  perfumed 
alleys  which  surrounded  it,  and  hurrying  almost  madly  in  the 
direction  of  the  neighboring  hills. 

With  his  disappearance,  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro  once  more 
emerged  from  the  cover  of  the  neighboring  thicket.  His  espio- 
nage over  his  niece  and  her  visitors  seems  to  have  been  continued 
throughout  the  evening.  He  had  been  sufficiently  near,  in  his 
place  of  concealment,  to  behold  all  that  had  taken  place,  and  to 
hear  every  syllable  that  was  spoken.  An  exulting  expression 
was  kindled  in  his  face,  and  his  satisfaction  at  the  result  was  audi- 
bly expressed. 

"  So  far  it  is  well !  He  hath  his  quietus.  I  had  expected  this  ; 
but  it  is  something  to  be  sure.  That  danger  is  passed.  There  is 
yet  another,  and  a  greater !  Were  I  as  confident  of  the  answer  she 
would  make  to  the  prayer  of  Philip  as  of  Andres — nay,  were  I 
not  so  confident — I  should  feel  at  rest.  This  accursed  anxiety  ! 
It  leaves  me  almost  a  coward.  But  I  must  arm  myself  for  the 
worst,  and  against  the  final  struggle.  It  will  come,  and  I  must  be 


54  VASCONSELOS. 

prepared.     Olivia  de  Alvaro  must  wed  with  neither  of  these 
knights  of  Portugal.   She  must  wed  with  none.   The  hour  that  finds 

her  a  bride,  finds  me .     But  it  shall  never  come  to  this  ; 

we  must  baffle  him,  or  he  must  perish.     Both  shall  perish  ere 
she  wed  this  man  !" 

Did  Olivia  dream  of  the  near  neighborhood  of  her  uncle  all  this 
while !  Could  she  fancy  what  were  his  resolves  and  reflections,  in 
respect  to  her  future  fate  and  fortunes  !  It  might  almost  seem 
that  she  did  from  the  pallid  features  of  her  face,  the  big  tears 
swelling  in  her  eyes,  the  drooping  self-abandonment  with  which, 
as  soon  as  Andres  de  Vasconselos  had  disappeared,  she  suffered 
herself  to  fall  back  upon  the  couch,  her  hands  covering  her  face, 
and,  as  it  were,  seeking  to  stifle  the  deep  moan  of  agony  which 
perforce  escaped  from  her  lips.  The  sound  reached  Don  Bal- 
thazar in  his  place  of  concealment.  Slowly  he  receded  from  the 
spot  and  disappeared  in  the  more  distant  shrubbery.  He  had 
not  the  heart  to  meet  her  at  that  moment. 


CHAPTER    V. 

"  Uso  a  vedirmi 
Tremar  tu  sei ;  ma,  piu  non  tremo." — ALFIERI. 

IT  was  past  midnight  when  Andres  de  Vasconselos  returned  to 
the  bohio  or  cottage,  which  was  occupied  by  his  brother  and  him- 
self His  agitation  was  measurably  subsided,  but  not  his  pas- 
sions. The  quiet  was  only  upon  the  surface.  A  violent  storm 
was  still  busy,  raging  in  the  depths  of  his  spirit.  His  feature's 
were  rigidly  composed,  but  stern  almost  to  ferocity,  and  his 
emotion  was  perhaps  only  concealed  by  the  resolute  compres- 
sion of  his  lips.  It  seemed  as  if  he  did  not  dare  to  trust  to  them, 
in  speech.  Though  late,  his  brother  had  not  yet  retired  for  the 
night.  Philip  de  Vasconselos  was  busily  engaged  writing  at  the 
table,  the  only  one  which  the  apartment  contained.  The  light 
by  which  he  wrote  was  peculiar  enough,  however  common  to  the 
island.  It  consisted  of  a  cluster  of  twelve  or  fifteen  cocuyos, — 
that  larger  sort  of  phosphorescent  insect.  These  were  enclosed  in 
a  little  wicker-work,  or  cage,  made  of  the  most  delicate  threads 
of  gold-wire.  They  emitted  a  light,  of  a  color  brilliantly  green, 
ample  enough  for  all  the  purposes  of  the  student.  Philip  looked 
up,  at  the  entrance  of  his  brother,  and  discovered,  at  a  glance, 
that  his  emotions  had  been  violently  aroused  and  agitated.  He 
welcomed  him,  however,  with  a  gentle  word  and  smile,  the  an- 
swer to  which  was  at  once  brief  and  ungracious. 

"Are  you  unwell,  Andres?"  was  the  inquiry,  affectionately 
made;  for  the  elder  brother  was  touched,  rather  than  vexed,  by 
the  repulsive  accents  of  the  other. 

"And  if  I  were,  Philip  de  Vasconselos?"  sternly  and  unsatis- 
factorily replied  the  younger. 

"And  if  thou  wert,  Andres!     This  to  me,  thy  brother?" 

56 


56  VASCONSELOS. 

"  Why  not  1  Why  should  grief  or  suffering  of  mine  concern 
thee  ?  It  is  enough  that  thou  hast  neither." 

"Nay,  Andres,  that  I  myself  am  free  from  cares  and  sorrows 
•would  be  good  reason  only  why  1  should  seek  to  bring  some 
remedy  to  thine.  But  there  is  yet  another  cause  for  my  anxiety. 
The  epistle,  my  brother,  which  is  now  growing  beneath  my 
hands  especially  reminds  me  of  my  duty  to  succor  and  to  com- 
fort thee.  It  is  a  letter  to  our  mother,  Andres ;  and  I  am  even 
now  about  to  speak  of  thy  health  and  happiness." 

"What  warrant  hast  thou  for  assuming  either?  What  know- 
est  thou  of  my  happiness  or  health  ?" 

"  Nay,  Andres,  that  thou  hast  vigorous  and  youthful  health, 
may  not  be  denied.  All  who  behold  thee,  speak  loudly  of  thy 
full  cheek,  thy  elastic  form,  and  the  brightness  of  thine  eye;  and 
these  things  speak  for  thy  happiness  also.  It  is  vain  to  declare 
the  presence  of  a  grief  which  leaves  the  beauty  and  vigor  of  the 
form  unwasted  and  untouched.  Surely,  my  brother,  thou  art 
not  unhappy]" 

"Why  troublest  thou  me  with  such  questions,  Philip?  Write 
to  our  mother  whatever  it  pleaseth  thee  to  write.  Say  what  thou 
wilt.  It  matters  but  little  to  me  what  thou  sayest !" 

"  But  it  matters  much  to  her,  Andres,"  replied  the  other, 
somewhat  reproachfully.  "  Besides,  I  dare  not  speak  to  our 
mother  indifferently  of  him,  her  favorite  son,  whom  she  so  com- 
mended especially  to  my  affection  as  a  younger  brother." 

"  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  both  thou  and  our  mother  have  erred 
greatly  when  ye  claim  to  believe  that  I  need  guardianship.  I 
tell  thee,  Senor,  I  am,  like  thyself,  a  man, — and  fully  capable  of 
taking  care  of  my  own  health  and  fortunes." 

The  reply  to  this  rude  speech  was  full  of  a  sad  solemnity. 

"Something  hath  vexed  thee,  Andres,  making  thee  unjust  to 
thy  brother  and  ungrateful  to  the  tender  fondness  of  thy  mother 
for  thy  youth.  Thou  wilt  find  it  less  easy,  when  thou  recoverest 
thy  calm  of  temper,  to  forgive  thyself  than  to  procure  her  for- 
giveness or  mine.  I  will  finish  my  letter,  making  my  own 
report  of  thy  condition,  which,  until  this  hour,  Andres,  hath 


THE   RIVAL   EROTHERS.  57 

seemed  to  all  the  island,  as  to  myself,  such  as  it  would  be  most 
grateful  to  any  mother  to  behold  or  know." 

"As  thou  wilt ;  and  yet ! — Look  at  me,  Philip  de  Vasconselos! 
— look  at  me,  ere  thou  writest  down  any  delusive  falsehood  for 
my  mother's  eyes !  Look  I  like  one  whom  the  Gods  have 
marked  for  happiness?" 

He  approached  the  table  as  he  spoke,  and  grasped,  with  some 
violence,  the  hand  that  held  the  pen.  The  eyes  of  the  brothers 
encountered.  Those  of  Andres  were  blood-shot,  full  of  rage, 
and  expressive  of  a  fury  that  seemed  about  to  break  through  all 
restraint.  Philip  rose,  as  he  caught  the  fearful  expression  in  the 
other's  face.  His  own  features  were  calm  and  firm,  but  filled 
with  a  tender  concern  and  sympathy,  such  as  spoke  for  the  gen- 
tle and  noble  attachment  with  which  the  elder  brother  regarded 
the  younger,  and  the  favorite  of  their  mother. 

"Andres,"  he  said,  "I  know  not  that  I  am  wise,  or  like  to  be 
successful  in  asking  thy  confidence.  Of  late  thou  hast  seemed  to 
regard  me  rather  as  an  enemy  than  a  brother " 

"Thou  art !     Thou  art !"  was  the  wild  and  reckless  answer. 

"Nay,  I  cannot  answer  thee,  Andres,  by  any  assurance  in 
words.  It  becomes  not  me  patiently  to  strive  to  disprove  thy 
injustice.  I  look  upon  such  speech  as  a  sort  of  madness,  on  thy 
part,  rather  than  a  wrong  done  to  me.  Enough,  that  I  tell  thee 
I  am  here,  ready,  as  thou  hast  always  found  me  before,  to  serve 
thy  cause,  to  help  thy  progress,  to  fight  thy  battles — if  need 
be " 

"I  ask  not  thy  help  in  battle,  Philip  de  Vasconselos.  I  am 
equal  to  my  own  danger.  But  thou  art  willing  to  help  my  pro- 
gress— to  serve  my  cause? — How  sayest? — Eh!" 

"Yea!  with  all  my  strength,  and  all  my  heart!"  was  the  eager 
reply. 

"  Hearken  !  wilt  thou  deign  then  to  seek  on  my  behalf,  and  to 
solicit  from  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro,  the  hand  of  his  iticce  in 
marriage  ?  Wilt  thou  do  this,  Philip  de  Vasconselos  ?': 

"  Verily,  of  a  truth  will  I  do  this,  if  the  lady  hath  authorized 
3* 


58  VASCONSELOS. 

thee  so  to  solicit ;"  was  the  answer,  in  somewhat  subdued  ac- 
cents. 

"  If  the  lady  hath  authorized  thee  to  solicit !"  was  the  mocking 
repetition  of  the  infuriate  young  man  :  "  Go  to,  Philip  de  Vas- 
conselos,  I  well  know  that  thou  wouldst  not,  ay,  thou  couldst 
not,  serve  me  in  this.  Would  I  need  to  solicit  the  favor  of  the 
uncle,  were  I  sure  of  the  favor  of  his  niece  ?" 

"  Thou  wouldst  surely  not  seek  the  one,  were  the  other  denied 
thee  ?" 

"  Not  through  thy  eloquence,  surely,  Senor  Don  Philip,  lest 
thou  shouldst  haply  forget  thy  client's  claims  in  the  prosecution 
of  thy  own." 

"  Andres,  my  brother,"  said  the  other  calmly,  but  with  a  stern- 
er show  of  expression  than  had  before  been  apparent  in  his  coun- 
tenance,— "  it  will  not  be  easy  to  make  me  angry  with  thee.  It 
is  in  thy  madness  that  thou  dost  me  this  gross  injustice, — and  I 
forgive  it.  But  let  us  speak  no  more  hi  regard  to  this  matter. 
It  needs  not  that  I  should  tell  thee  what  thou  seemest  already  to 
understand,  that  my  affections  have  been  placed,  as  well  as  thine, 
upon  the  same  lovely  lady.  I  deny  not  this,  though  I  have  deem- 
ed it  only  proper  that  I  should  be  silent  on  the  subject,  seeing  thy 
secret  in  the  same  moment  with  mine  own.  It  is  surely  our  mis- 
fortune that  we  have  so  loved.  But  I  resolved,  from  the  moment 
when  I  discovered  the  bent  of  thy  affections,  that  the  field  should 
be  open  to  thee  from  any  obstruction  of  mine.  I  stood  not  in 
thy  way.  I  offered  no  rivalship  to  thee, — and,  while  thou  hast 
nightly  sought  the  dwelling  of  the  Lady  Olivia,  it  was  enough  for 
me  to  know  that  such  was  the  course  of  thy  footsteps,  to  turn 
mine  in  the  opposite  direction.  This  very  night,  when  I  learned 
that  thou  wast  her  guest,  I  left  the  garden  of  the  lady " 

"  Ha  !  thou  wast  there, — and  thou  hast  heard  ?"  was  the  inter- 
ruption. 

"  I  have  heard  nothing  !  When  I  found  the  verandah  occupied 
by  thyself  and  Nuno  de  Tobar,  with  his  betrothed,  I  turned 
away  in  silence,  seeking  nothing  farther.  I  left  thee  to  thy  own 


RECONCILIATION.  59 

progress,  with  the  resolution  to  give  thee  all  the  opportunity ; 
and,  if  success  were  thine,  to  bury  in  silence,  in  the  depths  of 
mine  own  heart,  the  secret  affection  which  has  troubled  it.  Thy 
injustice  hath  not  suffered  this " 

A  deep  groan  from  the  younger  brother  interrupted  the  speaker 
for  a  moment.  The  latter  would  have  proceeded,  but  Andres 
broke  in. 

"  Enough  !  Enough,  my  brother,"  he  exclaimed  with  a  re- 
turning sentiment  of  justice.  "  I  am  a  madman  and  a  fool.  I 
have  wronged  thee !  Pursue  thy  fortunes.  It  needs  not  any 
longer  that  thou  shouldst  yield  thy  hopes  or  purposes  to  mine. 
This  night  hath  resolved  me.  It  'finds  me  denied,  where  I  had 
hoped  most  strongly.  It  finds  me  destitute,  where  I  had  set  all 
my  fortunes  on  the  venture.  I  dare  not  wish  that  thou  shouldst 
be  more  fortunate.  I  am  not  generous  enough  for  that.  Yet  I 
stand  in  thy  path  no  longer.  Within  the  hour  I  have  made  a  new 
resolution  ;  I  will  continue  with  Hernan  de  Soto.  I  will  go  with 
him  into  Florida.  In  Cuba  1  should  find  but  wreck  and  sorrow  only." 

"  Is  it  so,  my  brother  !"  said  Philip  sadly. 

"  Pity  me  not,  if  thou  wouldst  not  madden  me.  Thou  knowest 
my  pride  and  temper.  Beware,  lest  I  forget  what  is  due  to  thee 
— lest  I  forget  thy  justice,  thy  generosity,  ever  shown  to  me,  even 
when  my  perversity  was  most.  Enough,  now  that  my  mood  in- 
clines to  thee,  to  do  thee  right,  Philip  ;  although  I  dread  to  think 
that  I  no  longer  love  thee  as  I  did.  I  see  thee  destined  for  suc- 
cess where  I  have  failed — where  I  have  been  crushed  and  con- 
founded with  unexpected  denial.  I  fear — I  feel — that,  but  for 
thee,  this  had  not  been  the  case.  Thou  hast  passed  before  me 
as  thou  hast  ever  done  before.  It  matters  nothing  that  thou 
shouldst  tell  me  of  thy  forbearance.  Thou  hast  given  way  to 
me — thou  hast  yielded  me  opportunity — and,  in  thy  secret  heart, 
perchance,  it  is  like  thou  felt  that  thou  couldst  do  so  with  safety. 
I  know  the  strength  of  thy  will  and  hope,  Philip  de  Vasconselos, 
and  fully  believe  that  thou  hast  built  thy  expectations  upon  a  con- 
fidence in  thy  superior  fortune,  which  might  boldly  give  every 
opportunity  to  mine " 


60  VASCOXSELOS. 

"  Thou  still  wrong' st  me,  Andres  !"  mildly. 

"  Perhaps,  perhaps  ! — do  I  not  even  wrong  myself  as  well  as 
thee  ?  We  will  speak  no  more  of  this.  Enough,  that  the  field 
lies  before  thee — that  I  cross  thy  path  no  longer — that  I  go 
on  the  expedition  with  De  Soto — and  as,  most  likely,  thou  wilt 
be  successful  where  I  have  failed,  so  thou  wilt  remain  here,  and 
we  will  cast  our  shadows  no  more  upon  each  other.  Write  this  to 
our  mother,  and  say  to  her  that  my  soul  is  now  wholly  yielded 
to  the  ambition  of  conquest.  Tell  her  what  thou  wilt  of  those 
dreams  of  Dorado,  which  woo  the  adventurer  to  the  wilds  of  the 
Appalachian." 

"  Brother " 

"  Think  not  that  I  would  wrong  thee,  Philip.  Is  it  not  enough 
that  even  in  my  passion  and  my  pang,  I  acknowledge  thy  forbear- 
ance 1  I  blame  thee  not,  even  while  I  curse  in  bitterness  thy  al- 
ways better  fortune.  It  is  thy  fortune  that  prevents  my  love, 
and  not  thyself." 

"  But  thou  dost  love  me,  Andres "?" 

"  I  know  not  that ! — How  should  I  love  thee,  when  thou  hast 
been  the  barrier  to  my  love  ? — the  only  one  passion  on  which  all 
my  affections  have  been  set !" 

"  But  I  know  not  this,  Andres ;  »I  have  never  spoken  word  of 
love  or  tenderness  to  the  Lady  Olivia." 

"  But  thou  wilt  speak  both  ;  and  she  will  hear  thee,  and  respond 
to  thee  in  accents  like  thine  own.  No  more  of  this,  lest  I  grow 
wild  and  foolish,  and  curse  thee,  Philip,  for  thy  better  fortune." 

"  Nay,  thou  shalt  not,  brother,"  and  he  threw  his  arms  tenderly 
about  the  unreasonable  youth,  who  submitted  but  only  for  a  mo- 
ment to  the  embrace  ;  he  shook  himself  free  from  it  in  the  next 
instant.  Philip's  eyes  followed  him  with  a  deep  and  melancholy 
interest,  full  of  sorrow  and  affection,  as  he  saw  him  preparing 
once  more  to  leave  the  cabin. 

"  Whither  go  you,  my  brother,  at  this  late  hour  ?" 

"  Forth  !  Forth  once  more  into  the  night !" 

O 

"Nay,  Andres;  were  it  rot  better  thou  shouldst  seek  for 
sleep  ?" 


THE  LOVEPv  AND  THE  BROTHEK.          6t 

"  I  cannot  sleep  !  Thou  knowest  not  what  a  stifling  fullness 
harbors  here — and  here  !"  was  the  reply  of  Andres,  smiting  his 
head  and  bosom  as  he  spoke.  "  I  must  hurry  forth  !  I  must 
have  air  and  solitude  !" 

"With  these  words  he  disappeared  from  the  cabin.  Philip  de 
Vasconselos  followed  him  to  the  door,  and  his  eyes  anxiously 
pursued  the  retreating  form  by  the  imperfect  starlight,  until  it 
had  wholly  gone  from  sight.  The  elder  brother  then  returned  to 
the  table,  where,  seating  himself,  he  rested  his  cheek  upon  his 
palm,  and  sunk  into  a  fit  of  melancholy,  which  was  of  mixed 
character,  at  once  pleasing  and  painful.  The  perverse  and  will- 
ful pride  of  his  brother,  his  suspicious  and  jealous  temper,  must 
necessarily  have  been  productive  of  great  grief  to  one  by  whom 
he  was  earnestly  beloved ;  but  it  was  in  vain  that  Philip  de  Vas- 
conselos tried  to  stifle  the  feeling  of  satisfaction  which  enlivened 
and  pleasantly  agitated  his  bosom,  as  he  thought  of  the  rejec- 
tion by  Olivia  de  Alvaro  of  his  brother's  suit.  Love  is  certainly 
one  of  the  most  selfish  and  exacting  of  all  the  passions  in  the  heart 
of  youth ;  perhaps  because  it  is  the  passion  which  most  com* 
pletely  absorbs  and  swallows  up  the  rest.  Philip  was  really 
fond  of  Andres ;  fond  of  him  by  reason  of  natural  sympathies, 
as  a  brother ;  fond  of  him  by  habit  and  association — fond  of 
all  that  was  manly  in  his  character — proud  of  his  spirit  and  youth- 
ful beauty — fond  of  him,  on  account  of  their  mother,  and  partic- 
ularly so,  as,  for  so  long  a  time,  he  had  been  the  guardian  of  his 
youth  and  fortunes.  But  his  heart  reproached  him  for  the  still 
grateful  feeling  of  satisfaction,  which  he  vainly  endeavored  to  sub- 
due, and  which  continually  reminded  him  that,  in  this  quarter, 
there  was  no  longer  an  obstacle  to  his  own  successes.  It  was 
to  overcome  this  thought  that  he  proceeded  to  resume  the  letter 
which  he  had  been  writing  to  his  mother  when  Andres  had  first  made 
his  appearance.  A  few  additional  lines  only  were  written,  when 
ne  flung  the  reed  from  him  and  closed  the  portfolio.  His  nerv- 
ous system  was  in  too  much  agitation  to  suffer  him  to  continue  at 
an.  employment  which  particularly  demanded  the  utmost  calm 


62  VASCONSELOS. 

of  the  spirit.  He  went  once  more  to  the  entrance  of  the  cabin, 
and  soliloquized,  as  if  his  brother  were  still  in  sight. 

"  Unhappy  child  of  passion  !  forever  erring  and  repenting — only 
to  repeat  thy  error  ;  what  a  destiny  is  thine  !  How  shall  I  watch 
and  save  thee,  when  it  is  ever  thus,  that  some  cruel  suspicion,  the 
offspring  of  thy  wild  temper  and  fierce  will,  continually  begets 
tliy  hostility  against  the  hand  that  is  outstretched  in  thy  service  ! 
Thou  wilt  go  with  Hernan  de  Soto,  and  it  may  be  that  I  shall 
not  be  with  thee.  Ha  !  Is  this,  then,  a  doubt  1  Is  it  so  certain  that 
mine  shall  be  a  better  fortune  with  Olivia  deAlvaro  than  was 
thine  ?  She  has  refused  thee, — thou,  as  brave,  as  noble,  as  come- 
ly as  any  of  the  gentlemen  of  Castile  !  Will  she  be  more  likely 
to  hearken  me  ?  It  is  possible ;  and  I  have  a  hope,  a  hope  in 
which  I  gladden — though  I  shame  to  own  it, — based  upon  a  broth- 
er's denial  and  defeat !  Is  there  reason  for  this  hope  ?  Do  I 
not  delude  myself — does  not  Nuno  de  Tobar,  when  he  encour- 
ages my  passion,  does  he  not  delude  me  also  ?  The  thought 
that  I  too  shall  be  scorned,  makes  it  easy  to  pardon  the  violent 
passions  of  my  poor  Andres.  Well !  We  shall  shortly  see ! 
Now  that  he  no  longer  pursues  the  quest,  it  will  be  for  me  to 
know  what  is  my  fate.  A  few  days,  and  it  may  be  that  I  also 
go  with  thee,  my  brother,  into  the  wild  forests  of  the  Apalachian. 
And  yet,  were  there  other  fields  of  venture,  Hernan  de  Soto 
should  have  no  help  of  mine.  He  hath  favored,  rather  than 
frowned  upon,  these  jealousies  of  his  Spanish  followers.  They 
hold  me  in  their  hate,  if  not  their  disesteem ;  and  envy  me  the 
very  skill  and  knowledge  upon  which  they  build  somewhat  for 
their  hope  of  success.  Let  Olivia  but  smile  upon  my  prayer, 
and  I  fling  them  off,  with  as  little  regard  as  I  would  fling  off  the 
most  worthless  thing,  in  my  dislike  or  indifference  !" 

We  need  not  follow  Philip  de  Vasconselos  in  his  soliloquy. 
Enough  is  given  to  show  the  temper  of  his  mind  and  character. 
We  will  leave  him  to  his  slumbers,  such  as  he  may  snatch,  in 
the  brief  interval  which  now  remains  between  the  midnight  and 
the  dawn ;  while  we  retrace  our  footsteps  once  more  to  the 
dwelling  of  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro. 


THE   GUARDIAN   AND   WARD.  63 

It  might  have  been  an  hour  after  we  saw  him  retiring,  silently, 
from  his  place  of  espionage  among  the  groves  which  surrounded 
the  verandah  where  his  niece  had  received  her  guests,  that  we 
find  him  returning  to  the  same  spot.  But  it  was  no  longer 
to  find  concealment  and  to  play  the  spy  that  he  now  appeared. 
His  step  was  set  down  firmly  and  fearlessly,  and  his  lips  parted 
with  a  pleasant  catch  Of  Castilian  song,  as  he  drew  near  the 
shrubbery.  Don  Balthazar  was  no  mean  musician.  With  no  sen- 
sibilities such  as  are  vulgarly  assumed  to  be  absolutely  necessary 
to  musical  endowment,  he  was  held  to  be  something  of  a  master, 
and  could  shape  corresponding  melodies  to  the  most  difficult  dit- 
ties, with  a  readiness  not  unlike  that  of  the  Italian  improvisator! 
His  song  on  the  present  occasion,  which  might  have  been  a 
spontaneous  utterance  for  aught  we  know,  was  sufficient!}1  loud 
to  be  heard  within  the  dwelling.  But  it  did  not  reach  the  senses 
of  Olivia,  who  lay  stretched  upon  the  divan,  upon  which  we 
beheld  her  sink  suddenly  at  the  departure  of  Andres  de  Vascon- 
selos,  under  the  burden  of  a  nameless  sorrow,  for  which,  with 
Beauty  in  her  endowment,  and  Devotion  at  her  feet,  it  would  be 
very  difficult  to  account.  She  beheld  not  the  entrance  of  her  uncle, 
and  yet  she  slept  not.  Her  eyes  were  open,  but  the  glance  was 
vacant ;  '  the  sense  was  shut.'  It  was  fixed  within,  upon  the 
struggling  passions  of  her  own  heart,  and  took  no  heed  of  exter- 
nal objects.  Don  Balthazar  approached  her — he  stood  before 
her — he  spoke  to  her,  yet  she  heard  him  not.  He  paused  quiet- 
ly, and  surveyed  her.  Very  peculiar  was  the  character  of  that 
glance  which  he  bestowed  upon  the  lovely  outline  and  perfect 
beauty  of  the  features  within  his  gaze.  It  might  be  pride  and 
exultation,  such  as  a  father  feels  beholding  the  unsurpassable 
charms  of  a  favorite  daughter.  But  there  was  something  still 
that  was  equivocal  in  the  expression  of  his  features.  There  was 
a  mysterious  significance  in  that  look,  at  once  of  steady  and 
circumspect  watch,  yet  of  eagerness  and  satisfaction,  which  baffled 
the  curiosity  that  it  continued  to  provoke.  Some  moments 
were  consumed  in  this  serpent-like  gaze,  and  all  the  while  she 
remained  absolutely  unconscious  of  his  presence.  She  was  only 


64  VASCONSELOS. 

aroused  from  this  unconsciousness  as  he  sat  himself  quietly  be- 
side her,  and  folding  his  arms  about  her  waist,  lifted  her  with  an 
air  of  great  affection  in  his  embrace.  Then  it  was  that  she 

O 

started,  looked  wildly  about  her  for  a  moment,  and  then,  distin- 
guishing the  intruder,  fixed  upon  him  a  countenance  expressive 
of  any  feeling  but  that  of  tenderness  or  regard.  In  an  instant 
the  full,  quick,  keen  vitality,  came  like  •  a  flood  of  light  into  her 
great  dark  eyes ;  her  lips  quivered,  and  were  suddenly  closed 
fast,  as  if  with  sudden  resolution.  She  started  from  the  cush- 
ions, and  shook  herself  free  from  his  grasp,  as  if  he  had  been  a 
viper. 

"You !"  she  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  suspicion  and  apprehen- 
sion. 

"  Even  so,  Olivia.  Who  else  ?  But  what  now  ?  Why  this 
passion  1  What  has  vexed  you  ?  What  startles  you  ?" 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here  ?"  she  asked  wildly. 

"  But  this  moment,"  he  answered  :  "  I  thought  you  slept." 

She  drew  a  deep  sigh,  as  if  suddenly  relieved. 

"  It  is  late,"  she  said  ;  "  I  will  retire." 

"  Late  !  what  of  that  ?  Have  you  any  cares  for  to-morrow  ? 
Sit,  my  beauty,  and  tell  us  who  have  been  your  guests — who 
hath  been  here  1  What  are  your  tidings  ?" 

"I  have  none,"  she  answered  coldly  and  timidly,  still  moving 
to  retire. 

"Now,  saints  and  demons!  what  is  in  the  child!"  he  ex- 
claimed, as  he  endeavored  once  more  to  detain  her  in  his  grasp. 
She  shrunk  from  him  with  a  visible  shudder.  A  heavy  scowl 
passed  over  his  forehead,  and  he  spoke  with  closed  teeth. 

"  What !  still  in  thy  Biscayan  temper  ?  Nay,  nay,  my  pre- 
cious one,  thou  shalt  not  leave  me  thus." 

"Suffer  me  to  go,  uncle,"  she  entreated,  as  he  caught  her  hand. 

"  Why,  so  I  will,  when  thou  hast  answered  me  what  has  put 
thee  in  this  temper  again  ?  Methought,  when  I  Jeft  thce  last,  that 
thou  hadst  been  sobered — hadst  grown  wiser.  What  has 
wrought  thee  into  this  passion,  at  a  moment  when  brave  cava- 
liers grow  humble  in  thy  train  ?  Or  dost  thou  repent  thee  for 


A  WATCHFUL  PEOTECTOE.  65 

having  dismissed  with  denial  this  famous  young  gallant  of  Por- 
tugal?" 

What,  a  change  in  her  aspect  followed  this  speech  from  his 
lips  !  But  a  moment  before  she  exhibited  aversion,  but  it  was 
coupled  with  timidity  and  a  feeble,  tearful  apprehension.  In  a 
moment  the  timidity  was  gone — the  tear — the  apprehension. 
Her  eyes  flashed  full  with  indignation  as  she  replied  : — 

"  What !  thou  hast  again  descended  to  the  office  of  the  spy? 
Thou  hast  once  more  placed  thyself  in  secret  watch  upon  my 
actions?" 

"  Not  upon  thy  actions,  child — not  upon  thee,  but  upon  those 
who  approach  thee.  I  know  thy  danger  from  these  gallants,  and 
it  is  in  degree  as  I  fear  them,  my  Olivia,  that  I  keep  watch 
over  thee,  as  thy  guardian — thy  protector,  child " 

He  renewed  the  attempt  to  take  her  hand  as  he  spoke. 

"  Touch  me  not,"  she  cried.  "  Oh,  wolf  assigned  to  keep  the 
lamb!" 

"  What  wouldst  thou  have,  child  ?  It  is  surely  needful  that 
I  hold  ever  present  in  mind  the  treasure  that  I  am  set  to  keep." 

"  Oh,  fiend  !  and  thou  smil'st  as  thou  speak'st  thus  dreadfully." 

"  Nay,  nay,  not  a  fiend,  Olivia,  only,  I  grant  you,  not  exactly 
an  angel.  Believe  me,  I  am  not  a  whit  worse  than  most  other  men." 

"  Thou  slanderest  thy  race." 

"  No,  truly,  no.  Most  guardians,  having  such  precious  treasure 
in  their  keeping,  would  take  care  of  it  as  I  have  done.  Have  I 
not  kept  thee  well,  my  child — as  tenderly,  as  closely  ?  Shall 
others  rob  me  of  the  treasure  before  mine  own  eyes  ?  Ah, 
child  !  if  I  loved  thee  less,  I  had  been  spoiled  of  thee  before. 
It  is  in  my  fondness,  Olivia, " 

"  Oh!  cease  to  vex  me  with  these  cruel  taunts !  What  gain  is  it 
to  thee  now,  that  thou  shouldst  add  a  sting  to  a  sorrow  ?  If  to 
thee  I  owe  the  loss  of  hope,  why  jibe  me  ever  with  this  loss  ? 
Why  hold  before  mine  eyes  the  terrible  picture  of  the  woe 
thou  hast  planted  forever  in  my  soul  ?  Forbear  thy  mockeries. 
Suffer  me  to  leave  thee — suffer  me  to  sleep — sleep — sleep  !  if 
this  be  possible  to-night." 


66  VASCONSELOS. 

"  Nay,  I  would  not  mock  thee,  Olivia.  I  but  speak  to  thee  the 
language  of  a  sober  truth.  I  do,  indeed,  love  thee,  my  child — 
love  thee  as  my  own — would  have  thee  ever  as  mine  own,  and 
thou  inightst  see  in  this  fondness  the  secret  of  that  distrust  which 
dogs  the  heels  of  all  ethers.  Give  not  way  to  this  blindness  and 
madness,  which  can  profit  neither  thee  nor  me,  and  see  the  love 
which  I  feel  for  thee,  my  child !" 

"  Peace !  Peace !  thou  maddenest  me  when  thou  talkest  to 
me  of  thy  love  !" 

"  A  truce  to  thy  passion,  Olivia.  Thou  art  not  wise  in  its 
indulgence.  It  spoils  thy  beauty.  It  takes  too  much  from  thy 
charm  of  face,  as  it  disturbs  the  peace  of  thy  heart.  Thus  ruffled, 
thou  remind'st  me  painfully  of  thy  Biscayan  mother,  who  was  fiercer 
in  her  wrath  than  the  hurricane  of  these  tropic  countries.  She 
would  suddenly  grow  convulsed  like  thyself,  with  a  tempest  that 
threatened  everything  with  destruction ;  but  she  was  not,  as  thou 
art,  capable  of  soothing  all  down  again  to  the  most  beautiful 
repose !" 

"  Her  passion  were  much  the  most  fitting  to  mate  Avith  thine  ! 
O !  would  that  she  were  here !  Mother !  O  !  mother !  Where 
art  thou  now  1  Sec'st  thou  thy  child — into  what  hands — into 
what  fate  she  has  fallen — without  hope— as  one  who  dr.wns, 
with  all  the  seas  upon  him,  and  no  strength  to  struggle  upward 
into  life1?" 

She  threw  herself  once  more  upon  the  cushions  of  the  divan, 
her  face  downward.  One  single  sob  escaped  her,  but  one,  for 
at  that  moment  the  hand  of  Don  Balthazar,  in  seeming  tender- 
ness, was  placed  upon  her  neck.  His  touch  seemed  to  recall  the 
more  fiery  feeling  with  which  she  had  at  first  received  him.  She 
started  up,  and  repulsed  him  with  a  spasmodic  fierceness. 

"  Thy  touch  is  like  so  much  poison !  Beware,  lest  I  go  mad  ! 
Thou  wilt  drive  me  too  far,  as  if  thou  hadst  not  already  driven  me 
to  perdition !  Canst  thou  not  pity — wilt  thou  not  spare  me  ?  1 
have  been  weak — I  know  that  I  am  weak  still — but  I  feel  that  1 
have  a  strength  in  me  that  may  become  fearful  for  mischief,  if 
not  for  gcod.  Uncle,  it  were  better,  far  better,  ere  you  rouse 


A   DISAPPOINTMENT.  67 

that  strength  into  exercise,  that  you  shoukj  drive  your  dagger 
into  both  of  our  hearts." 

The  brow  of  Don  Balthazar  was  contracted;  but  a  determined 
effort  dissipated  the  cloud.  His  rble  was  that  of  conciliation. 
He  was  not  unwilling  to  acknowledge  and  to  respect  that  fearful 
strength  which  she  asserted  herself  to  possess,  though  latent.  He 
felt  that  he  had  gone*  too  far.  He  had  given  her  no  credit  for 
that  character  of  which  she  was  now  making  a  fearful  exhibition. 
Nor,  indeed,  had  he  hitherto  found  any  reason  to  suspect  the 
presence  of  such  fierce  energies.  She  had  hitherto  borne  her- 
self so  mildly,  if  not  feebly,  that  he  had  come  rather  to  slight,  if 
not  to  despise,  the  weakness  of  a  nature,  which  had  been 'almost 
wholly  controlled  by  his  superior  will.  That  he  had  been  so 
successful  hitherto,  in  this  respect,  was  due  to  causes  already 
glanced  at — the  seclusion  of  her  mode  of  life,  her  extreme  youth, 
and  her  imperfect  education.  The  instincts  of  her  heart,  suddenly 
springing  into  birth,  had  opened  to  her  eyes  a  new  survey,  and 
filled  her  soul  with  a  consciousness  not  less  overwhelming  and 
oppressive  than  strange.  He  was  beginning  to  discover  the  full 
extent  of  her  developments,  when  it  was  perhaps  too  late.  Re- 
garding her  as  a  child,  a  pliant  creature  in  his  hands,  he  had  but 
too  much  given  way  to  that  satirical  temper  which  marked  his 
character.  It  was  now  his  aim  to  soothe.  He  was  not  practised 
in  this  art,  but  he  seriously  addressed  himself  to  the  endeavor. 
"  Truly,  dear  Olivia,  thou  art  most  perverse  to-night.  Is  it  at  the 
moment  when  I  am  most  grateful  to  thee,  that  thou  wouldst  re- 
pulse my  acknowledgments  1  I  do  but  seek  to  show  how  greatly 
1  prize  that  dutiful  affection  which  alone,  I  doubt  not,  has  caused 
thee  to  dismiss  this  young  and  insolent  knight  of  Portugal." 

"Dutiful  affection!"  she  exclaimed,  interrupting  him  with  a 
bitter  look  and  accent,  which  effectually  interpreted  into  scornful 
irony  the  two  words  which  she  had  borrowed  from  his  speech. 

"And  was  it  not  this,  Olivia?" 

"  Once  for  all,  Sefior,  let  this  folly  cease.  There  is  no  policy 
in  this  hypocrisy.  Thou  canst  deceive  me  no  longer.  I  have 
no  need  to  deceive  thee.  We  know  each  other.  Thou  knowest 


68  VASCOXSELOS. 

me — thou  hast  sounded  the  hollows  of  my  heart,  and  the  know- 
ledge thou  hast  gained  has  been  fatal  to  all  my  hopes.  Thou 
knowest  that  I  owe  thee  neither  duty  nor  affection — that,  if  any- 
thing, I  owe  thee  hate  only — an  unforgiving  hate  that  should 
dream  of  nothing  but  revenge.  But  I  have  no  such  dream. 
Give  me  but  peace — 'such  peace,  at  least,  as  may  spring  from 
thy  forbearance,  and  if  I  meet  thee  with  smiles  no  longer,  I  shall 
at  least  assail  thee  with  no  reproaches.  I  rejected  the  suit  of 

Don  Andres  de  Vasconselos  simply  because alas !  why 

should  I  furnish  thee  with  a  reason  for  this  rejection  ?  Enough, 
that  it  was  with  no  regard  to  thy  interests,  or  thy  desires,  that 
I  was  moved  to  decline  his  prayer." 

"And  yet,  that  thou  didst  so,  is  a  great  gain  to  me,  as  well  as 
to  De  Soto.  Failing  thee  and  thy  hacienda,  this  knight  will  now 
be  ready  to  seek  for  a  slower  fortune  amongst  the  Apalachian 
of  Florida.  We  had  lost  him  but  for  this.  He  and  his  brother 
both — that  more  wily  adventurer — had  set  earnest  eyes  upon 
thy  possessions.  I  doubt  not  that  they  knew  well  the  number 
of  thy  slaves  and  acres,  and  the  exact  annual  product  of  thy 
lands." 

"Oh!  be  silent,  Senor — be  silent,  for  very  shame.  It  befits 
not  thee,  least  of  all,  to  impute  such  sordid  passions  to  these 
noble  gentlemen." 

Even  at  this  moment,  when  fully  convinced  of  the  necessity  of 
conciliation,  and  really  desirous  not  to  offend,  the  habitual  sneer 
of  the  uncle  obtained  the  ascendency. 

"And  thou  persuadest  thyself — though  I  wonder  not — that  it 
is  thy  charms  alone  which  have  wrought  upon  the  affections  of 
these  knights  of  Portugal." 

The  sarcasm  smote  sharply  on  the  woman  sensibilities  of  the 
damsel.  She  replied  instantly : 

"1  think  not  of  it!  I  would  that  I  could  think  of  neither  them 
nor  thee.  Small  pleasure,  indeed,  do  I  find  in  thinking  of  thee, 
and  smaller  the  profit,  in  such  condition  as  is  mine,  in  giving 
thought  to  knight  or  noble,  on  whose  scutcheon  there  rests  no 
stain..  Why  wilt  thou  madden  me  with  these  things]  If,  for  a 


FATHERLY   AFFECTION.  t)9 

moment,  I  have  been  weak  and  vain  enough  to  think  of  any  noble 
gentleman,  Heaven  knows  how  suddenly  and  soon  my  own 
heart  has  smitten  me  for  the  guilt  and  folly  of  such  fancies.  But 
if  the  deadlier  tongue  of  Remorse  were  not  speaking  ever  at  my 
heart  this  language,  there  were  rebuke  sufficient  in  the  conscious- 
ness that,  whatever  speech  is  addressed  to  my  ear,  must  be 
heard  also  by  thine ; — that  even  did  I  presume  to  love,  or  to 
listen  to  the  pleadings  of  a  lover,  the  precious  sweetness  of 
such  intercourse  must  be  without  secret  or  security.  Thy  watch 
is  ever  upon  my  footsteps,  and  thy  miserable  spies " 

"Nay,  but  thou  wrong' st  me,  child.  I  have  set  no  eyes  to 
watch  thee  but  mine  own,  and  mine  watch  thee  only  because  thou 
art  so  precious  in  their  sight." 

She  gave  him  but  a  single  look,  so  cold — so  freezingly  sad, 
that  he  felt  all  its  profound  scorn  and  denial. 

"  Of  a  truth,  Olivia,  it  is  so.  Hadst  thou  been  my  own  child, 
I  could  not  have  loved  thee  better" 

"  Father!  Mother!  Hear  him  !  Alas  !  wherefore  was  I  not 
thine  own  !  That  might  have  secured  me  from  this  fate !  And 
yet,  I  know  not !  I  know  not  what  thou  boldest  sacred  !  I  know 
not  writ  could  have  been  safe  in  thy  hands,  from  thy  bad  and 
brutal  nature.  Oh !  Sefior  Balthazar — I  will  call  thee  no  more 
mine  uncle — when  I  look  upon  thee,  as  I  do  now,  with  eyes  fairly 
opened  upon  thy  cruelties  and  crime, — I  feel  a  doubt,  a  dread, 
lest  1  be  in  the  power  of  some  fearful  emissary  of  the  enemy  of 
sol's,  whose  study  is  how  to  cut  me  off  from  repentance  and  sal- 
vat'on.  Mother  of  God,  be  merciful !  Jesu,  descend  to  me  and 
cover  me  with  thy  holy  shelter.  Oh !  I  feel  that  I  shall  madden, 
unless  the  white  spirits  whom  I  pray  for  shall  come  quickly  to 
my  aid !" 

A  passion  of  tears  followed  this  wild  apostrophe,  and  some- 
what relieved  the  swollen  heart  and  the  overburdened  brain.  Don 
Balthazar  felt  that  he  must  pause.  He  did  not  dare  to  address 
her  in  the  moment  of -the  paroxysm.  He  waited,  watching  her 
patientlv,  till  her  tears  flowed  freely,  and  then  subduing  himself 
to  his  policy — his  bitter  reckless  mood  to  the  necessity  before 


70  VASCONSELOS. 

him,  and  with  which  he  felt  that  it  would  not  do  to  trifle  farther, 
— he  carefully  adapted  his  speech  to  the  task  of  soothing.  In 
some  measure  he  succeeded.  She  grew  calmer,  and  milder,  and 
he  now  approached  her  where  she  sat  upon  the  divan,  and  with- 
out interruption,  save  from  her  sobs  occasionally,  continued  the 
giozing  speech  which  was  to  quiet  her  anger.  She  answered  him 
but  seldom,  and  then  capriciously — sometimes  with  tears  only, 
and  again  with  some  burst  of  indignant  speech,  that  drove  him 
back  to  his  first  positions. 

"  Oh !  why  wilt  thou,  dearest  Olivia,  give  way  to  these  pas- 
sionate phrensies  1  of  what  profit  to  conjure  up  such  wild  and 
gloomy  reflections?  They  nothing  help  your  situation  or  mine. 
They  restore  us  nothing  that  is  lost,  but  tend  rather  to  embitter 
the  only  consolations  that  remain  to  us." 

"  What  are  they  1"  she  asked  fiercely. 

"  To  economize  the  better  feelings.  To  forgive  where  we  can 
— to  spare  when  we  can " 

"  Ah !  I  owe  thee  much  for  thy  forbearance." 

"I  feel  that  I  deserve  thy  chiding;  but,  dearest  child,  I  will  do 
better.  I  will  give  thee  no  cause  for  anger  henceforward.  Only 
be  merciful. — I  owe  thee  much,  Olivia, — much  for  the  past. — 
That  thou  hast  sent  off"  this  young  gallant  with  denial,  leaves  me 
to-night  with  a  light  heart." 

"And  mine!  mine  is  breaking!" — was  the  wild  finish  which 
her  lips  sobbed  out  at  the  conclusion  of  his  sentence.  The  deep 
despairing  agony  of  her  manner  admirably  suited  the  language 
of  her  lips. 

"  Nay,  nay,  my  child ;  not  so  !  The  world  is  but  begun  with 
thee.  There  is  sunshine  for  thee,  and  flowers  in  abundance.  Thou 
wilt  forget " 

"  Never  !  never !  Oh  !  would  it  could  break,  break  at  once, 
that  I  may  feel  no  more  this  terrible  struggle — this  pang  that  h 
worse  than  death  !  But  its  doom  is  not  to  break.  There  musfc 
lio  more  agonies.  I  must  undergo  many  deaths, — and  that  blight 
of  all — that  accursed  bitter  blight!" 

The  picture  of  h,T  grief  was  beyond  all  practice.     There  could 


AN   UNWELCOME  PARENT.  71 

be  no  question  of  the  terrible  earnestness  of  her  woe.  With  her 
face  buried  in  the  cushions  of  the  divan,  she  lay  silent  or  sobbing, 
without  an  effort  to  move,  until  he  endeavored  once  more  to  raise 
her  up.  Again  she  betrayed  that  shuddering  horror  at  his  touch, 
which  she  had  shown  several  times  before ;  and,  firmly  repulsing 
him,  she  again  abandoned  herself  to  her  afflictions.  His  soothing 
was  in  vain,  or  only  offered  new  provocation  to  her  sorrows. 

"  Olivia,  dearest  child,  wherefore  now  this  unwonted  passion  ? 
What  grief  hast  thou  now,  that  thou  hadstnot  yesterday,  and  the 
clay  before  1 " 

"  Ay,  Senor,"  she  answered,  with  a  fearful  vehemence,  "  and 
last  week,  and  months  agone,  even  to  that  dark  and  damnable 
hour,  when " 

And  she  closed  the  sentence  abruptly,  covering  her  face  with 
her  hands  as  she  did  so,  as  if  to  shut  from  sight  some  terrible 
presence. 

"Olivia — clear  child!" 

"  Child  me  not !  1  am  not  thy  child.  Thou  hast  known  me  as 
a  child  only  to  crush  me  as  a  woman.  Away,  I  e'ntreat  thee — 
let  me  never  see  thee  more.  If  thou  wouldst  not  drive  me 
into  absolute  phrensy,  I  implore  thee  to  forbear — to  depart  for- 
ever. It  is  those  days,  those  weeks,  those  months,  when  in  my 
ignorance  and  weakness,  I  had  not  felt  these  agonies,  as  I  feel 
them  now,  to  which  I  owe  them  all !  Blot  these  out,  Senor,  from 
my  memory !  make  me  forget  them,  I  command  thee,  or  take 
this  dagger,  and  thrust  it  into  this  heart,  which  thou  hast  filled 
with  death  and  misery.  Do  it,  uncle — do  it,  if  thou  hast  one 
sjiiirk  of  the  man  within  thy  bosom — if,  indeed,  thou  hast  one 
il'ding  of  pity  in  thy  soul  for  the  poor  orphan  whose  sire  drew 
milk  from  the  same  bosom  with  thy  own." 

She  clutched  at  the  weapon  in  his  girdle,  and  wvild  have  seiz- 
ed it,  but  that  he  grapple;!  her  by  the  wrist,  ami  held  her  fast. 

"  Oh  !  thou  skouldst  do  it — such  a  blow  would  never  shame 
tfn/  d;i<:;{!T.  If  thou  wilt  not.  hence!  Let  me  never  see  thee 
more.  If  thou  canst  not  bring  me  the  forgetfulness  I  implore, 
thou  art  my  bane  only,  and  canst  brin^j  no  remedy.  Tf'y  words 


72  VASCONSELOS. 

of  soothing  I  despise.  As  I  live,  uncle,  I  loathe  thy  presence. 
Thy  voice  sounds  hissingly  in  mine  ears.,  like  that  of  the  serpent, 
who  carries  a  deadly  poison  beneath  his  tongue." 

The  inspired  priestess,  drunk  with  the  sacred  fury,  never  looked 
so  sublimely  fearful.  Her  great  flashing  eyes,  lighting  up  the 
paleness  of  her  cheeks — her  widely  distended  nostril,  her  lofty 
and  erect  figure,  and  the  wild  but  beautiful  action  of  her  frame, 
actually  seemed  to  confound  and  overwhelm  her  companion.  He 
spoke — but  how  feeble  now  were  his  words  of  soothing — his  en- 
treaties— his  arguments  ! 

"  Olivia  !  This  is,  indeed,  wilful.  Of  what  avail  now  all  this 
horror,  this  professed  loathing  ?" 

"  Professed !  Oh  !  Man,  man  !  Vain  man  !  What  seest 
thou  in  me  at  this  moment,  to  make  thee  dream  that  I  could  say 
anything  that  I  do  not  feel !  But  of  what  avail  thou  ask'st  ?  Of 
what  avail,  indeed,  except  for  curses — perhaps  for  death !  But 
that  the  grief  can  bring  no  relief  is  sufficient  cause  for  suffering. 
Could  it  avail — could  anything  avail — would  I  suffer  thus? 
Would  I  seek  no  remedy  ?  Would  I  not  go  through  the  fur- 
nace in  its  search,  and  gladly  give  up  the  life  which  is  tutored 
to  reconcile  itself  to  all  manner  of  sin  and  sorrow,  as  it  is  made  to 
see  that  nothing  can  avail !  Oh  !  Blessed  Virgin,  if  my  lips  may 
now  be  permitted  to  name  thy  name,  and  to  appeal  to  thee,  what 
hast  thou  suffered  me  to  see  ?  In  the  brief  space  of  a  single  week 
mine  eyes  have  opened  to  the  truth.  I  behold  now  what  I  neither 
saw  nor  dreamed  before.  Oh  !  Senor, — brother  of  my  wretched 
father,  what  hast  thou  done  !  Thou  hast  slain  the  very  hope — the 
life  of  hope  and  happiness  of  his  only  child,  given  to  thee  in 
blessings  and  in  sacred  trust,  all  of  which  thou  hast  trampled  un- 
der foot  in  scorn." 

"  Not  so,  dearest  Olivia.  Thou  seest  this  matter  through  a  false 
medium.  The  evil  is  not  of  the  magnitude  which  thou  deem'st  it. 
Who  is  there  to  betray  our  secret  ?  Who  is  it  that  knows " 

"  Is  it  not  enough  that  /  know, — that  /  feel — that  the  dreadful 
consciousness  is  crushing  me  to  the  earth,  making  my  sou]  a 
thing  of  constant  fear,  and  apprehensions  the  most  terrible  f 


OLIVIA'S  INDIGNATION.  73 

The  wisdom  of  Don  Balthazar  was  again  at  fault.  He  could 
not  forbear  a  remark,  which,  however  true  in  respect  to  the  sub- 
ject of  her  griefs,  was  yet  very  unseasonably  referred  to  in  the 
present  condition  of  her  feelings. 

"  Olivia,  this  dreadful  consciousness  of  which  thou  speakest, 
never  possessed  thee  until  thine  eyes  beheld  this  Philip  de  Vas- 
conselos.  Beware — my  child,  lest " 

The  fearful  spirit  was  roused  again  within  her.  She  did  not 
suffer  him  to  finish. 

"  And  I  say  to  thee,  Balthazar  de  Alvaro,  unworthy  and 
tivamerous  brother,  base  and  cruel  guardian — shameless  and  per- 
jured man — do  thou  beware !  If  I  am  to  be  crushed  and  cursed 
by  thee,  I  will  not  be  reproached  or  threatened  by  thee !  Thou 
sayest  justly,  indeed,  that  until  I  beheld  this  knight  of  Portugal, 
I  did  not  well  conceive  the  full  extent  of  the  wrong  which  thou 
hadst  done  me.  That  thy  perfidy,  thy  stealth,  thy  cunning,  thy 
pernicious  malice  and  fatal  power,  which  had  wrought  upon  me 
in  moments  of  oblivion,  had  done  me  the  cruellest  of  evils,  I  well 
know  !  My  tears,  my  reproaches  have  not  been  spared,  as  thou 
well  knowest,  from  the  beginning  !  But  of  the  awful  wrecks  of 
which  thou  wert  the  sole  cause,  I  had  little  knowledge.  Mine 
eyes  are  opened,  and,  as  thou  sayest,  with  the  moment  of  my 
knowledge  of  Philip  de  Vasconselos  !  Oh  !  make  not  my  heart 
feeble  by  compelling  my  tongue  to  repeat  that  name.  It  was 
only  when  I  knew  him  that  1  began  darkly  and  hopelessly  to 
know  myself.  I  then,  for  the  first  time,  heard  the  terrible  voice 
speaking  to  my  conscience  as  if  from  the  depths  of  my  own  heart. 
It  is  in  the  birth  of  what  had  been  my  blessing  and  my  joy,  that 
I  am  made  terribly  sensible  of  what  is  now  my  privation  and  my 
curse  !  Enough  !  It  is  wonderful  that  I  have  speech  for  this  !  But 
thy  wanton  malice  hath  opened  all  the  floods  of  my  indignation. 
No  more  to-night !  Let  us  separate — though  I  go  not  to  sleep. 
Sleep  !  sleep  !  can  I  ever  sleep  again  1  Thou  scest  me  changed ; 
and  such  a  change !  I  am  no  more  a  child, — blind,  weak,  sub- 
missive— overcome  when  my  innocent  sleep  dreamed  nothing  of 
danger,  and  blasted  by-  a  guilt  in  which,  Holy  Mother,  be  my 
4 


74  VASCONSELOS. 

witness,  I  had  no  share  !  I  am  a  woman  now.  I  have  risen  to 
the  highest  intelligence  of  woman,  only  through  despair.  I  now 
know  thee  for  what  thou  truly  art — base,  brutal,— and  oh  !  shame 
on  thy  pretence  of  manhood,  with  a  corrupt  selfishness  that  would 
keep  me  still  a  victim  !" 

"  Olivia !" 

"  Follow  me  not — touch  me  not — look  no  more  upon  me — if 
thou  art  wise,  and  wouldst  not  see  me  a  maniac  beneath  thine 
eyes,  raving  aloud  to  the  abashed  people  of  thy  and  my  misera- 
ble secret." 

Thus  speaking,  with  arms  extended  as  if  for  judgment,  and 
eyes  flashing  almost  supernatural  fires,  she  waved  him  passion 
ately  aside,  and  defying  the  obstruction,  which  he  was  too  much 
paralyzed  to  offer,  darted  headlong  from  the  apartment 


CHAPTER    VI. 

"  Now  wil  these  damned  conspirators  'grains!  Virtue 
Make  such  felonious  traffic  of  her  servants, 
As  move  the  night  to  shudder  ;  cause  her  fair  planets 
To  blush  with  secret  passion  that  they  may  not 
Come  down  with  holy  succor  I    Oh  I  that  angels 
Might  put  on  armor  when  they  would,  and  strangle 
The  enemy  ere  he  strikes." — THE  PARRICIDE. 

SHE  was  gone  from  sight  before  he  recovered  himself.  He 
stood  abashed — stunned  rather — pale  and  almost  trembling,  at 
the  unexpected  fury  he  had  awakened.  At  length,  but  slowly, 
he  began  to  recover  himself;  and  his  gathering  thoughts  betrayed 
themselves  in  broken  soliloquy. 

"..This  grows  more  serious.  It  must  be  looked  to.  It  is  a 
danger  to  be  hushed  by  the  shortest  method,  if  it  passes  not  off 
like  all  the  rest.  But  I  must  prepare  myself  for  the  worst.  She 
must  not  be  suffered  to  destroy  me,  even  if  she  resolves  to  de- 
stroy herself.  I  must  cure  these  violences  of  passion — and  I  will." 

His  hand,  perhaps  unconsciously,  griped  the  handle  of  his 
dagger.  A  moment  after,  he  seized  hurriedly  the  light,  and  left 
the  room,  pursuing,  at  first,  the  passage  which  Olivia  had  en- 
tered, as  if  about  to  proceed  also  in  the  direction  of  her  chamber ; 
but  he  paused  almost  as  soon  as  he  had  entered  it,  wheeled  about, 
passed  once  more  into  the  apartment  which  he  had  left,  and, 
opening  a  door  in  the  opposite  wall,  entered  another  passage  con- 
ducting to  his  own  chamber.  Here,  setting  the  light  down  upon 
a  table,  he  threw  himself  into  a  light  chair  of  bamboo  work,  and 
with  so  little  heed,  and  so  heavily,  that  the  slight  wicker  frame 
of  the  fabric  creaked  and  threatened  to  sink  beneath  his  weight. 

"  I  was  a  fool,"  he  said,  soliloquizing  moodily.  "  I  was  but  a 
fool  to  confront  her  in  her  paroxysm.  It  is  then  that  she  hath  as 

75 


76  VASCONSELOS. 

little  measure  in  her  anger  as  her  fierce  Biscayan  mother.  Yet 
how  lately  hath  this  sort  of  fury  developed  itself  in  her.  How 
wonderfully  to-night  did  she  resemble  her.  There  was  the  same 
dark,  fiery  eye,  sending  out  sudden  flashes ;  the  same  sudden 
swelling  of  the  great  vein  across  her  forehead,  till  it  seemed  big 
to  bursting ;  the  same  show  of  the  teeth,  gleaming  white,  close 
set,  and  gnashing  at  moments  the  thin  lips  that  seemed  to  part 
and  turn  over,  like  those  of  a  hungry  tiger.  What  a  resemblance  ! 
I  never  saw  the  like  before.  Yet,  when  I  beheld  the  likeness, 
that  I  should  have  dealt  in  the  old  sarcasm  ;  that  I  should  not 
have  forborne.  I  should  have  known  enough  of  the  mother,  to 
have  waited  for  the  moment  of  her  exhaustion.  Who  takes  the 
fish  will  do  wisely  not  to  thwart  him  in  the  struggle.  Why 
should  he  not  struggle,  since  it  avails  nothing  against  his  capture  ? 
He  is  so  much  the  sooner  hi  the  toils.  Let  him  beat  the  water 
while  he  lists,  until  it  becomes  easier  to  die  than  to  strive.  Such 
is  the  true  art  of  dealing  with  women  in  their  passion,  especially 
when  they  carry  tempers  of  such  intensity.  It  is  in  her  exhaus- 
tion onlv  that  she  yields ;  and  the  exhaustion  comes  the  sooner 

•>  */ 

where  the  flurry  is  so  extreme.  With  opposition,  she  finds  new 
strength  ;  but,  taken  in  the  lull,  with  fondness  or  persuasion,  and 
she  cannot  help  but  yield  ! " 

He  paused,  rested  his  elbow  on  the  table,  and  supported  his 
brow  upon  his  hands  for  a  while  in  silent  meditation.  A  few  mo- 
ments only  passed  thus  ;  his  mood  was  too  much  excited  for  quiet. 
lie  started  up  from  his  seat,  and  again  instantly  resumed. 

"  Something  has  gone  wrong,"  he  muttered.  "  She  hath  dis- 
covered something  of  the  secret.  How  much,  it  behooves  that  I 
should  know.  She  knows  the  worst,  that  is  certain  ;  but  can  she 
have  found  out  the  agencies  ?  I  must  summon  Anita.  That  hag 
of  hate  hath  not  betrayed  rne,  I  know.  She  too  much  loves  the 
evil  to  do  aught  which  should  prevent  its  exercise.  She  too 
much,  hated  the  mother  to  be  merciful  to  the  daughter.  She  hath 
too  willingly  served  me  in  this  matter  to  have  repented  of  her 
share  in  the  performance.  But  she  may  have  kept  her  secret 
ii:i\  i  II.-^M  \\;i\<  In  -i  that  Olh  ••!  !••'  "  '  .' 


THE    UNIVERSAL    PANACEA.       *  77 

her,  I  know  ;  and,  with  suspicion  once  awakened,  an  intense  spirit 
will  be  sleepless  till  it  makes  discovery.'  I  must  see  and  exam- 
ine her." 

lie  touched  a  tassel  depending  from  the  wainscot ;  then  resum- 
ed his  soliloquy,  pursuing  another  train  of  thought. 

"  These  accursed  knights  of  Portugal !  They  vex  me  on  every 
side.  She  hath  dismissed  one  of  them,  but  he  is  no  less  a  trou- 
ble. Will  he  stay  content  with  one  rejection  1  These  lovers, — • 
deeply  filled  with  the  one  image,  and  of  rare  arrogance, — are  not 
easily  satisfied  with  denial ;  but  I  will  yet  put  my  foot  upon  their 
necks  ;  or,  failing  in  this,  I  shall  thrust  my  dagger  to  their  hearts. 
Every  man  is  haunted  by  some  viper,  or  spider — venomous  rep- 
tile, or  spiteful  insect.  These  are  mine  !  Yet,  but  for  this  won- 
derful change  in  her,  they  should  not  give  me  cause  of  fear.  Bui 
yesterday,  so  meek;  and  now,  a  tigress  !  Well,  there  is  always, 
at  the  worst,  one  remedy,  and  this  cannot  fail  me!" 

Thus  speaking,  he  drew  forth  his  dagger  from  the  sheath,  and 
contemplated  the  weapon  darkly  as  he  spoke.  There  was  that  hi 
his  manner,  and  the  cold  intelligence  in  his  eye,  during  this  sur- 
vey, which  denoted  the  reckless  hardihood  df  a  nature,  originally 
cold  and  selfish,  and  which  had  been  thoroughly  indurated  by  a 
long  and  terrible  criminal  experience.  It  is  not  for  us  to  go  back 
in  his  history,  and  recall  the  events  of  a  life  which  have  no  abso- 
lute connection  with  the  progress  which  is  ^before  us.  Enough, 
that  the  past,  once  known,  would  leave  us  little  doubt  of  the  cool 
indifference  with  which  the  bold,  bad  man  before  us,  would  school 
himself  to  the  execution  of  any  crimes  which  it  became  his  policy 
to  contemplate.  See  him  as  he  turns  the  dagger,  and  passes  his 
finger  over  the  rust-spots  that  darken  its  point,  and  dot  the  blade 
freely  upward  on  both  sides !  A  fierce  smile, — a  demoniac  grin 
appears  upon  his  face,  as  he  makes  the  survey,  and  tells  a  suffici 
ent  story. 

"  Ay,  it  is  there  still !"  he  muttered — "  precious  proof  of  my 
revenge !  Little  did  Nicolas  de  Vergaray  fancy,  when  he 
triumphed  over  my  heart,  that  I  should  sc  soon  find  the  way  tc 


78  VASCONSELOS. 

his !  I  would  not  cleanse  the  bright  steel  which  his  blood  had 
tainted.  I  preferred  that  the  stains  should  forever  remind  mo  of 
my  triumph  at  the  last ; — ay,  in  the  moment  when  he  fondly 
fancied  he  had  all  to  himself  the  happiness  which  he  had  despoiled 
me  of !  He,  at  least,  enjoyed  it  only  in  his  dreams !" 

The  door  opened.  The  soliloquy  was  arrested.  He  restored 
the  dagger  to  its  sheath,  and  looked  up  at  the  intruder.  This 
was  an  old  woman  of  about  sixty,  a  mestizo,  a  cross  of  the  negro 
and  the  red-man.  She  combined,  in  very  equal  degree,  the  most 
conspicuous  characteristics  of  the  two.  She  had  the  high  cheek 
bones,  the  thin  lips,  the  full  chin,  the  glossy  dark  flowing  hair  of 
the  Indian,  with  the  retreating  forehead  and  flat  nose  of  the  black. 
Her  eyes  were  of  the  sly,  sharp,  gipsy  cast,  the  brows  quite  gray, 
nnd  thus  in  singular  contrast  with  her  hair,  which  was  quite  as 
black  as  in  the  days  of  her  childhood ; — if,  indeed,  days  of  child- 
hood had  ever  been  known  to  her !  She  had  not  the  appearance  of 
one  who  had  ever  been  a  child.  The  wear  and  tear  of  vexing  pas- 
sions had  scarred  her  face  with  every  sign  of  premature  old  age. 
Her  skin  was  a  series  of  wrinkles,  like  the  ripples  of  spent  billows 
upon  a  gradually  rising  shore.  Her  teeth  were  gone,  with  the 
exception  of  a  couple  of  very  sharp  snags,  that  stood  out  in 
front,  between  her  thin  lips,  like  those  of  a  squirrel.  She  had  no 
flesh  upon  her  bones,  and  her  clothes,  thin  and  light,  according 
with  climate  and  season,  hung  upon  her  skeleton  form  as  if  from 
a  peg  upon  the  wall !  A  gauze  handkerchief,  wrapped  imper- 
fectly above  her  neck,  suffered  her  skinny  bosom  to  appear,  but 
without  increasing  her  attractions.  Her  figure,  thus  betraying 
the  signs  of  age,  was  yet  singularly  erect.  Her  step  was  firm, 
though  stealthy.  You  saw  that  she  set  her  foot  down  firmly, 
though  you  did  not  hear  it ;  and,  though  moving  with  caution, 
she  was  yet  quick  of  movement.  She  did  not  wait  for  a  sum 
mons,  but  advanced  at  once  to  her  master,  and  stood  up  before 
nim  ;  her  eyes  lighting  up  beneath  the  gray  brows,  like  lamps  of 
naphtha  in  sepulchral  caverns. 

"  Give  me  some  wine,  Anita,"  was  his  first  salutation. 


ANITA.  79 

She  brought  it  forth  from  a  cupboard,  and  placed  it  before 
him ;  a  flask  encased  in  wicker-work  of  straw.  The  goblet  was 
brought  at  the  same  moment.  She  said  nothing. 

"  Get  another  goblet  for  yourself,  Anita,  and  sit !" 

She  did  as  she  was  commanded,  quietly,  and  without  hesita- 
tion ;  as  if  to  obey  was  a  thing  of  course,  and  she  had  been  ac- 
customed to  all  manner  of  commands. 

Don  Balthazar  filled  his  glass,  and  swallowed  the  contents  at  a 
single  gulp.  He  filled  it  a  second  time,  and  seated  it  before 
him. 

"  Drink,"  said  he,  "  Anita." 

She  did  as  she  was  bade,  emptied  the  goblet  as  soon  as  filled, 
and  her  eyes  glittered  with  a  humid  light,  pale  and  intensely  spir- 
itual. After  a  pause,  in  which  she  seemed  wholly  to  wait  on  his 
words,  he  spoke : 

"  Well,  has  she  been  troublesome  ?" 

"  No !"  was  the  brief  reply,  in  the  short,  shrill,  yet  soft  manner 
of  the  red-man. 

"  It  is  strange  !  She  has  been  showing  me  the  image  of  her 
mother,  as  we  both  have  seen  it  often,  in  other  days ;  you,  in  par- 
ticular, Anita !" 

The  eyes  of  the  woman  glared  with  an  expression  of  hatred, 
which  was  absolutely  fiendish. 

"She  shows  the  blood,"  he  continued,  "as  I  never  saw  it 
shown  before  !  But  how  is  it  that  she  does  not  sleep  1  Has  she 
ate — has  she  drank  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  not  much  !  Very  little  !  She  suspects.  She  is 
uneasy.  I  see  !  She  thinks  something  wrong." 

This  was  spoken  in  a  jxitois  common  to  the  persons  of  her 
class,  but  we  do  not  choose  to  imitate  her. 

"Something  more  than  thinks,  I  fancy  !  She  knows.  How 
has  she  discovered  1" 

"  I  don't  know  that  she  has  discovered  anything.  She  said  to 
me  once,  about  a  week  ago,  that  she  wondered  why  she  felt  so 
drowsy  every  day." 

"  Ah !— and  you  ? " 


SO  VASCONSELOS. 

"  I  wondered  too  !     That  was  all !" 

"  There  is  something  more.  Are  you  sure,  Anita,  that  she  has 
not  found  you,  sleeping  ?  Are  you  sure  that  you  have  not  hap- 
pened upon  a  flask  of  canary  at  the  wrong  moment  ?" 

"No!" 

"  Well !  I  am  sure  that  she  has  made  some  discovery !  The 
question  is  what1? — and  how  much?  She  knows  the  worst — that 
is  certain." 

The  woman  grinned. 

"  But  does  she  know  by  what  means  we  have  worked  1  You 
say  she  eats  and  drinks  little.  Is  this  only  the  lack  of  appetite, 
or  does  she  suspect  her  food  ?" 

The  woman  avowed  her  ignorance. 

"  But  she  ate  and  drank  yesterday  ?" 

"  Yes ;  but  very  little." 

"  Did  she  seem  affected  afterwards  1" 

"Very  little!  She  was  drowsy.  She  took  her  siesta;  but 
when  I  came  in  to  look  at  her,  she  rose  up." 

"  Can  she  have  become  accustomed  to  it  already  ?  Does  it 
cease  to  affect  her  ?  You  must  increase  the  dose,  Anita." 

"  It  may  kill  her  !" 

" Hardly!     How  much  do  you  give  her  now?" 

The  woman  took  a  small  phial  from  her  bosom  and  held  it  up 
to  the  light.  It  contained  a  slightly  greenish  liquor.  She  desig- 
nated, with  her  finger  upon  the  phial,  the  quantity  given. 

"That  should  be  enough,  certainly!  But  if  she  refuses  the 
draught — rejects  the  food !  That  is  the  question.  The  next 
question  is,  whether  she  refuses  from  want  of  appetite,  simply? 
You  must  change  the  food,  Anita.  Tempt  her  appetite.  Get 
some  new  dishes,  and  forbear  the  drug,  until  her  suspicions,  if 
she  have  any,  are  quieted ; — say,  for  the  next  three  days.  Mean- 
while, be  vigilant,  and  see  that  you  are  not  surprised.  You  note 
all  who  approach  her  ?" 

"All!" 

"  Now  is  the  time  for  circumspection.  She  loves  this  knight 
of 'Portugal." 


THE   CONFEDERATES.  81 

"  She  has  just  refused  him." 

"  Yes  ;  the  younger  brother.     But  the  other " 

"  He  comes  seldom." 

"  But  is  not  the  less  powerful  when  he  comes.  They  must  be 
closely  watched,  when  together.  He  must  not  be  suffered  to 
propose  to  her  without  interruption.  If  you  find  him,  at  any 
time,  when  I  am  absent,  becoming  too  impressive,  show  yourself, 
and  stop  the  progress.  In  that  man  I  see  my  bane !  She  loves 
him.  How  has  she  concealed  it  from  you  ?" 

The  woman  answered  by  a  vacant  stare. 

"  Ah !  I  see !  There  are  some  things  quite  too  subtle  for  you, 
Anita.  But,  let  there  be  nothing  which  escapes  your  watch.  If 
necessary,  you  must  increase  the  potion." 

"  Unless  you  mean  to  kill  her, — no !  She  now  takes  as  much 
as  can  be  safely  given." 

"  Yes,  if  she  takes  it  all !  But,  when  she  refuses  to  eat  and 
drink,  or  does  so  sparingly,  then  more  may  be  given.  You  must 
not  forget  what  you  owe  her  mother." 

The  eyes  of  the  woman  glared  fearfully. 

"  You  have  not  forgotten  your  own  daughter?" 

Anita  seized  the  flask,  unbidden,  and  again  filled  the  glass 
before  her,  which  she.  emptied  at  a  draught. 

"  To-night,  I  have  seen  the  mother  in  the  daughter!  She  has 
all  her  passions,  though  as  yet  suppressed.  She  will  give  us 
trouble,  unless  we  take  heed  to  her.  Our  danger  is  in  the  passion 
which  she  feels  for  this  Portuguese  knight — the  elder,!  mean — not 
the  younger.  She  cares  nothing  for  him.  If  I  can  get  them  both 
away  to  Florida,  or  otherwise  disposed  of,  all  may  go  well ;  and 
she  may  subside  into  her  old  lethargy.  Her  passion  for  him  has 
brought  out  all  her  other  passions.  They  make  her  vigilant  and 
thoughtful.  They  quicken  her  intelligence.  She  is  not  the  same 
woman  she  was  a  month  ago.  She  is  no  longer  in  my  power,  cr 
in  yours.  If  we  heed  not,  she  will  escape  us.  She  will  marry 
this  Portuguese.  She  will  expose  us ! " 

The  woman  grinned  with  exultation. 

"  She  dare  not !     To  expose  us  is  to  tell " 

4* 


82  VASCONSELOS. 

M  Very  true ;  but  you  remember  that,  when  her  Biscayan 
mother  was  aroused  to  passion,  she  had  no  prudence !  She  re- 
vealed every  thing !  It  will  be  so  with  Olivia.  I  am  sure  of  it, 
from  what  I  have  seen  to-night.  That  is  our  danger.  Let  her, 
in  this  paroxysm,  be  assured  that  all  her  hopes  of  this  Portu- 
guese knight  depend  on  escape  from  ws,  and  she  will  rush  into 
the  market-place  with  all  her  secrets  !  She  will  destroy  herself 
in  the  fury  which  would  destroy  us.  And,  Anita,  if  she  can  win 
belief,  she  will  not  so  surely  destroy  herself.  We  know  that  she 
is  guiltless,  in  her  soul,  of  any  crime ; — we  know  that  the  whole 
wrong  is  ours !" 

"  Yes ;  but  the  shame  1" 

"  Is  something  in  Spain ;  not  so  much  here !  and  pity  and 
sympathy  will  lessen  it  anywhere !  We  must  beware  of  any 
extremity.  Now  is  the  time  for  all  your  subtlety,  if  we 
would  be  safe.  See  to  it;  observe  her  closely;  see  that  she  and 
this  knight  of  Portugal — the  elder,  mark  you — from  the  younger, 
indeed,  we  have  no  cause  of  fear — do  not  meet,  unless  under 
jo«r  eye  or  mine ;  and  that  they  do  not  come  to  any  understand- 
ing. We  must  keep  them  from  mutual  confessions.  They  both 
love  passionately;  but  better  for  us  that  they  were  both  dead, 
than  that  either  should  speak  of  passion  to  each  other's  ears ! 
Let  Her  but  hear  and  answer  him,  and  she  is  happy,  Anita — hap- 
py! think" of  that,  Anita! — think  of  that!  How  will  you  relish 
to  see  the  daughter  of  that  mother  happy  in  the  arms  of  her 
lover,  while  you  are  led  off  to  prison,  knowing  the  fate  of  your 
own  daughter — the  debt  of  thirty  years  unpaid;  while  your 
son » 

"  Tell  me  of  him  !  Have  you  heard  ?"  was  the  eager  inquiry 
of  the  woman,  who,  during  the  speech  of  the  other — which  was 
evidently  designed  to  goad  her  passions  into  phrensy, — had  risen 
from  her  seat,  and  moved  hurriedly,  with  -clasped  hands,  and 
in  intense  agitation,  over  the  floor. 

"Tell  me  of  him!     Of  Mateo; — have  you  heard,  my  master!" 

She  approached  him  closely  as  she  made  the  inquiry,  and  bent 

her  face  forward,  almost  touching  his  own.    Her  words,  earnestly 


NEFARIOUS   PROJECTS.  83 

and  impressively  spoken,  were  yet  hi  such  subdued  accents  as 
bardy  to  be  audible  to  his  ears. 

"  Tic  is  yet  in  the  mountain  fastnesses,  and  at  the  head  of  a 
formidable  band.  I  have  sent  to  him  by  a  special  messenger. 
I  have  sent  him  money." 

"Thanks,  my  master,  thanks!  But  have  you  got  his  pardon 
from  the  adclantado?" 

"  Not  yet !  But  if  we  can  get  these  Portuguese  knights  fairly 
pledged  for  Florida,  I  shall  succeed  with  Soto,  or  failing  with  him, 
shall  do  so  with  Dona  Isabella  when  he  is  departed." 

"  You  will  not  go  with  the  expedition  ]" 

"  Until  this  night,  I  had  resolved  upon  it.  Now,  my  resolution 
is  half  taken  the  other  way.  There  is  too  much  to  care  for  here. 
I  must  see  to  her!" 

"Happy!  She!"  muttered  the  woman:  "Ha!  ha!  As  if 
I  am  living  here  for  nothing.  As  if  I  had  no  memory  to  make 
bitter  all  my  soul !" 

"  Drink,  Anita." 

The  hag  willingly  obeyed.  The  instincts  of  black  and  red  man, 
combined  within  her,  made  it  easy  to  comply  with  such  an  order. 
When  she  had  finished,  her  eyes  glittering  with  a  moist  white 
light,  her  companion  said — 

"  And  now  watch !  She  must  eat  and  drink.  If  she  will  not 
eat  as  you  provide,  put  things  in  her  way  to  tempt  her.  Leave 
closets  open  to  her  search,  only  prepare  what  ye  put  there.  In- 
crease the  dose." 

"  It  will  kill  her,  if  she  eats  or  drinks.  But  what  then  1  Let 
her  die !" 

The  light  reddened  fiercely  in  the  vindictive  woman's  eye. 
Don  Balthazar  regarded  her  coldly  and  quietly  for  a  moment, 
then,  as  if  indifferently,  remarked — 

"  No !  not  yet — not  that !  it  might  peril  everything — it  might 
subject  us  to  suspicion " 

The  woman  approached  him  softly,  and,  with  a  significant  lift- 
ing of  the  finger,  said,  whisperingly — 

"  No  fear  of  that.     I  have  a  potion  which  shall  so  silently  steaj 


8i  VASCOXSELOS. 

into  the  brain,  that  none  shall  suspect.  It  will  leave  no  foot- 
print, no  finger-marks, — no  blood,  no  blackness,  no  sign  behind 
it,  yet  will  it  seize  upon  the  life  as  surely  and  as  suddenly,  as  if 
the  dagger  had  been  driven  right  into  the  close  places  of  the 
heart.  Say  but  the  word " 

The  dark-souled  man  shuddered,  as  he  heard,  and  saw  the 
fierce,  eager,  intense  glare  of  the  speaker's  eyes.  He  said  hur- 
riedly— 

"  No  !  Anita !  no  !  I  will  not  that.  I  will  that  she  should 
live — live — yes ! — the  time  is  not  yet  come  !" 

"It  is  as  you  say !  Yet  had  I  not  forborne  to  give  her  this 
poison,  but  that  thou  hadst  in  thy  power  a  more  terrible  death  ! 
I  had  rather  thou  shouldst  slay  her — thou,  of  her  own  blood: — 
and  I  saw  thee  do  it." 

"  I  slay  her,  Anita  !  Thou  art  mad  !  I  tell  thee,  I  would  not 
touch  her  life,  for  the  world,  if " 

"Ay,  -if, — if  she  saves  thee  not  the  danger  and  the  trouble.  But 
it  was  the  life  of  the  heart  and  the  hope,  and  the  woman  that  I 
beheld  thee  bent  to  slay,  and  thy  poison  was  so  much  more  fatal 
than  mine  !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !" 

"  Oh  !  get  thee  hence,  Anita  !  The  wine  begins  to  work  in  thee. 
But  help  thyself  to  another  goblet,  and  to  sleep  now.  Thy  watch 
has  been  a  weary  one." 

The  woman  yawned  at  the  suggestion,  filled  the  gol  let,  drank, 
and  was  about  to  retire  without  a  word,  when  she  seemed  to  re- 
collect, and  again  spoke,  as  usual,  in  those  low,  subdued  tones, 
which,  when  employed  to  utter  passionate  language,  are  so  sin- 
gularly impressive. 

"  Do  not  forget  Mateo  !  let  me  see  him  once  more — bring  him 
to  me — and  I  will  drug  for  thee  a  thousand  lives  !" 

Balthazar  took  her  hand  and  wrung  it  warmly,  nodded  his  head 
affirmatively,  but  said  nothing.  The  woman  went  away,  without 
obeisance  or  farther  nod. 

"  Well,  let  the  worst  come !"  muttered  the  Senor,  after  she 
had  departed,  "  and  Anita  has  her  own  remedies.  If  it  cannot 
be  otherwise,  let  her  use  the  potion.  She  can  burn  afterwards  to 


AN  ANTIDOTE  FOR  LOVE.  85 

prove  me  guiltless.     But  the  time  is  not  yet — not  yet.     May  it 
never  be.     I  would  escape  that  necessity,  if  I  can !" 

He  seated  himself,  folded  some  strips  of  the  fumous  Cuban 
weed  together,  and  lighted  an  extempore  cigar,  and  still  he  solilo- 
quized.  Balthazar  de  Alvaro  was  a  cold,  unscrupulous  villain ; 
but  though  his  thoughts  ran  upon  crime,  it  would  be  an  injustice 
to  him  now  to  suppose  them  dictated  by  hatred.  Jt  was  not  from . 
any  sentiment  of  hostility  that  he  pursued  his  victim,  as  his  lan- 
guage fully  testified. 

"  It  may  kill  her  ;  true  !  What  then  1  It  will  not  hurt  her ; 
nay,  it  will  help.  It  will  save  her.  The  quality  of  her  offence 
is  not  such  as  will  bring  down  punishment  upon  her  head  :  and 
the  wrong  she  suffers  may  well  atone  for  that  which  she  has  done. 
If  heaven  be  no  fable,  she  is  more  worthy  of  its  pity  than  its 
loathing  ;  and  if  hell  be  not  a  dream  of  the  priesthood,  as  I  deem 
it,  then  my  fate  must  assure  her  of  a  full  revenge !  Let  these  be 
her  consolation.  At  all  events,  I  must  seek  mine  own  safety.  She 
must  die,  if  needful  to  secure  this  !  yet,  we  may  escape  this  ne- 
cessity. If  we  can  chain  her  tongue,  my  fears  perish ;  and  if  my 
fears  perish,  she  may  live.  Time  will  show.  I  must  have  time. 
Let  this  old  hag  but  prove  faithful,  and  all  may  yet  go  well. 
These  Portuguese  knights  disappear  with  the  expedition.  I  must 
see  to  that.  I  must  move  Soto  to  show  better  favor  to  this 
Philip  de  Vasconselos  than  he  hath  yet  done.  He  must  encour- 
age him  ;  must  give  him  some  distinctions — some  command — and 
win  him  from  the  paths  of  love,  by  opening  better  glimpses  to 
those  of  ambition." 

But  we  need  not  pursue  the  meditations  of  the  subtle  and  bold 
criminal  who  sits  and  muses  before  us.  They  conduct  us  no  far- 
ther in  pursuit  of  the  clues  which  are  already  in  our  grasp. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

"  Sir.  in  my  heart  there  was  a  kind  of  fighting 
That  would  not  let  me  sleep  ....  Rashly — 
And  praised  be  rashness  for  it ! — Let  us  know, 
Our  indiscretion  sometimes  serves  us  well, 
When  our  deep  plots  do  pall  ;  and  that  should  teach  us 
There's  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends, 
Bough  hew  them  how  we  will." — HAMLET. 

THE  moment  that  Olivia  reached  her  own  chamber,  she  threw 
herself  prostrate  before  a  fine  portrait  of  the  Virgin  that  hung 
against  the  wall  of  the  apartment.  She  uttered  no  prayer,  no 
sob,  no  sound  ;  shed  no  tear  ;  gave  no  outward  sign,  beyond  her 
prostration,  of  the  object  of  her  quest,  or  of  the  agony  that 
preyed  upon  her ;  asked  not,  in  language,  for  the  peace  and  se- 
curity which  she  sought,  but  lay  at  length,  her  humility  and  grief 
apparent  only  in  the  one  action,  as  if  with  the  conviction  that 
all  her  woes  were  known ;  her  contrition ;  the  shame  from  which 
she  suffered  ;  the  faint  hope  which  she  dared  not  encourage ;  the 
fond  passion,  which  she  felt  to  be  pure  as  grateful,  but  which  her 
conscience  bade  her  not  to  entertain.  She  did  not  once  look  up 
to  the  benign  and  blessing  features  of  that  Mother  of  Love  and 
Mercy,  whose  eyes,  she  yet  felt,  were  looking  sweetly  and  ten- 
derly down,  even  into  the  secret  recesses  of  her  own  full  and 
bursting  heart.  And  thus  she  lay,  prone,  motionless,  as  if  her 
life  and  breathing  had  ceased  in  the  utter  prostration  of  her  hop? 
and  person. 

There  is  something  very  touching  in  the  spectacle  of  a  person 
totally  ignorant  ef  religion  as  a  subject  of  thought  and  examina- 
tion, who  yet  welcomes  it  as  a  faith;  who  believes  with  sponta- 
neous consent ;  who  receives  it  as  a  mystery ;  seeks  not  to  ana- 
lyze or  solve  it ;  prefers  it,  indeed,  as  a  mystery,  and  confides, 

80 


OLIVIA'S   FAITH.          -  87 

without  misgiving,  to  all  its  promises!  Though  wealthy,  and 
of  high  birth  and  connections,  Olivia  de  Alvaro  was  as  little 
versed  in  the  doctrines  of  the  theologian,  as  the  simplest  peasant 
of  the  country.  She  knew  not  that  there  was  anything  needing 
to  be  understood.  She  simply  felt.  Her  faith,  as  perhaps  is  the 
case  always  with  the  most  pure  of  heart,  was  based  wholly  on  the 
sympathies,  and  a  natural  sense  of  weakness.  It  was  a  thing  of 
instinct,  not  of  thought,  and  it  reached  her  through  a  sensuous 
medium.  Better,  indeed,  as  it  was  so.  Doubting  her  strength, 
her  safety,  and  the  good  faith  of  those  around  her,  she  had  no 
doubt  as  to  whom  only  and  certainly,  she  could  turn  for  refuge. 
We  may  smile  at  her  securities;  we  may  hold  her  choice  of  the 
medium  of  communication  with  Deity,  to  be  a  mistaken  one; 
but  her  confidence  is  unimpaired ;  and  regarding  the  object  sought 
only — peace  of  mind — reliance — confidence; — the  end  was  quite 
to  the  full  attained,  in  her  case,  as  if  the  visible  Saviour  of  man- 
kind stood  before  her.  Nor  are  we  permitted  to  doubt  that  the 
benevolence  of  God  accepts  any  medium  of  communication,  with 
himself,  which  a  pure  faith,  however  mistaken,  may  honestly 
adopt.  To  suppose  otherwise,  would  be  to  accuse  his  justice, 
making  feebleness  and  ignorance  objects  of  punishment,  equally 
with  offence  and  guilt. 

Suddenly,  while  Olivia  still  lay  in  this  position,  the  door  of 
her  chamber  opened;  and  a  person  entered — a  girl  of  sixteen  or 
eighteen — a  mulatto,  who  had  been  evidently  just  aroused  from 
her  slumbers.  She  came  in  yawning;  her  face  vacant,  her  eyes 
still  heavy  with  sleep.  Her  features  were  of  a  sort  to  show  that 
sleep  was  not  necessary  to  impair  her  intelligence.  They  were 
coarse  and  meaningless.  She  was  one  of  those  mulattoes,  in 
whom  the  more  sluggish  characteristics  of  the  negro  race  pre- 
dominated over  all  others:  and  united,  in  singular  degree,  the 
qualities  of  cunning,  with  an  excessive  stolidity.  Olivia  rose 
at  her  approach,  seated  herself  upon  a  little  settle,  and  looked 
up  into  the  face  of  the  mulatto  with  eyes  of  inquiry,  if  not  of 
hope.  The  suggestion  occurred  to  her  for  a  moment — "Can  I 
possibly  make  use  of  this  creature  ?  Is  she  capable  of  the 


88  VASCONSELOS. 

degree  of  faith  and  sympathy  which  I  need  in  my  present 
strait?"  The  inquiry  was  a  natural  one.  Every  young  damsel 
inclines  to  put  trust  in  her  waiting  maid,  and  in  this  relation 
Juana  stood  to  her  mistress.  But  the  latter  had  too  long  h:id 
experience  of  the  characteristics  of  the.  maid-servant.  She 
was  not  ignorant  of  her  cunning,  but  she  had  good  reason  to 
believe  that  this  was  all  pledged  to  the  service  of  her  uncle, 
through  the  medium  of  the  old  hag  Anita,  who  was  the  grand- 
mother of  the  girl.  As  for  her  affections  and  sympathies,  these 
Olivia  had  never  yet  been  able  to  awaken.  She  had  been  indul- 
gent and  considerate ;  had  bestowed  her  gifts  freely,  but  beyond 
the  single  moment  in  which  they  were  bestowed,  she  had  no 
proof  that  the  benefit  was  remembered  with  gratitude.  The 
blank,  indifferent,  stolid  features  which  she  surveyed  were  full  of 
discouragement,  and  after  a  brief  examination  of  them,  the  un- 
happy damsel,  with  a  sigh,  averted  her  eyes,  abandoned  her  pur 
pose  of  solicitation — if  she  had  entertained  any — and  submitted 
to  be  disrobed  in  profound  silence.  The  girl  was  not  disposed  to 
break  this  silence.  She  performed  her  task  drowsily.  It  was 
not  a  protracted  one:  and  this  done,  she  retired  for  the  night, 
leaving  her  mistress  alone,  once  more,  to  commune  with  her 
own  sorrows. 

"  There  is  no  hope  !"  she  exclaimed,  mournfully,  sitting  in  her 
night  dress  where  the  maid  had  left  her,  her  hands  folded  upon 
her  lap,  and  her  moist  eyes  looking  vacantly  up  at  the  Virgin 
with  an  expression  of  the  most  woeful  self-abandonment. 

"  Yet  why  should  I  hope !  What  is  there  to  hope  ?  "What 
have  I  to  live  for?  The  light  is  gone,  the  love !  I  dare  not 
love.  It  is  criminal  to  love.  It  is  now  criminal  to  live !  Yet, 
Mother  of  Mercy,  I  dare  not  think  of  death.  I  cannot  die !  I 
would  not.  Yet,  it  is  not  because  I  fear !  Oh  no !  Yet,  if  it  be 
not  fear,  can  it  be  hope  that  makes  me  unwilling  ?  Oh !  weak 
and  miserable  sinner  that  I  am,  can  I  dream  to  unite  the  fate  of 
any  brave  cavalier  with  mine  ?  Shall  I  glide  like  a  serpent  into 
the  bosom  of  so  noble  and  gentle  a  knight  as  Philip  de  Vasconse- 
los,  and  beguile  him  into  love  for  so  base  a  thing  as  I — I  that  live 


THE   CONFLICT.  89 

a  He  to  God  and  a  loathing  to  myself!  Shall  I  who  know  all 
'.hat  I  am — and  who  hate  my  own  knowledge — shall  I  delude 
such  as  he  into  a  faith  (hat  I  am  worthy  of  his  embrace  and  love  ? 
Alas!  if  love  alone  could  make  me  worthy,  then  were  it  not 
unseemly  that  I  should  do  so.  Oh!  I  could' requite  his  passion 
with  a  fervor  and  a  truth  that  shotild  leave  him  nothing  to  re- 
]>roach,  and  nothing  to  regret!  To  grow  to  him — to  cling  to 
him  forever — to  pass  into  his  very  heart — to  drink  life  and  joy 
forever  from  his  lips! — what  a  dream  of  happiness!  Oh!  why 
do  I  cherish  this  dream  ?  Am  I  base  enough  to  hope,  or  to  toil 
I'/r  its  fulfilment?  Can  I  do  so  great  a  wrong  to  so  noble  a  gen- 
tleman ?  Down,  foolish  thought !  Be  still !  What  is  the  wrong  ? 
Do  I  not  love  him?  Will  J  not  love  him  truly  as  never  yet  was 
knight  beloved  by  woman  ?  Knows  he  aught — will  be  ever  know 
aught  of  what  hath  happ'd  to  me?  will  it  lessen  his  trust  or  my 
fidelity?  Who  dare  speak — who  reveal  the  terrible  secret? — not 

he — my  uncle — my  fate  !  my  eternal  enemy !  whom Mary, 

mother,  take  the  wild  thought  from  me ! — whom  I  sometimes 
feel  it  in  my  heart  to  slay,  even  while  he  sleeps  upon  his  couch 
under  the  noonday  heavens !" 

And,  speaking  thus  passionately,  she  threw  herself  once  more 
before  the  picture  of  the  Virgin,  whom  she  invoked,  as  with  the 
hope,  by  prayer,  to  silence  her  tumultuous  passions.  But  the 
refreshing  mercies  of  prayer  were  not  hers.  Her  soul  was  in 
too  wild  a  conflict  to  be  subdued  to  quiet,  unless  by  a  miracle  of 
grace.  There  were  other  reasons  for  this  conflict  and  this  weak- 
ness. The  unhappy  girl  was  really  feeble,  and  in  want  of  sus- 
tenance. We  have  heard  it  intimated  that  she  probably  enter- 
tained suspicions  with  regard  to  the  food  proffered  her.  Such 
was  the  case.  She  now  felt  assured  that  her  food  was  drugged  ; 
and  she  knew  with  what  cruel  object.  She  left  much  of  it  un- 
tasted,  eating  only  in  the  necessity  of  life ;  and  avoiding  all  those 
dishes  with  which  she  had  reason  to  believe  the  lethargic  potion 
to  be  mixed.  Her  caution  and  forbearance  had  not  always  availed 
for  her  safety  ;  for  so  subtly  was  her  food  prepared  by  the  dex- 
terous agent  employed  in  drugging  it,  that  the  drug  had  been  in.. 


90  VASCONSELOS. 

troduced  into  fruits  even,  the  integrity  of  which  one  would  sup 
pose  could  not  be  invaded  unless  by  some  external  proofs  being 
apparent.  In  this  way  only  could  she  account  for  the  dreamy 
and  prostrating  moods  which  she  had  occasionally  felt  during  the 
day.  Here,  then,  was  a  young  woman,  of  high  birth,  proud  con- 
nections, and  ample  fortune",  an  unsuspected  prisoner  in  her  own 
dwelling,  denied,  virtually,  the  necessary  aliment  of  life.  Truly 
the  case  was  a  pitiable  one  ! — Olivia  de  Alvaro,  sustained  during 
all  the  scenes  in  which  we  have  beheld  her,  chiefly  by  the  intens- 
ity of  her  excitements,  was  now  near  to  faulting  from  absolute 
want  of  food. 

The  cravings  of  nature  were  not  to  be  withstood.  She  rose 
from  her  prostrate  position  ;  seizing  her  lamp,  which  she  shaded 
rarefully  wilh  a  handkerchief  on  all  sides  but  one,  she  cautiously 
opened  the  door  of  her  chamber  and  entered  upon  the  passage 
which,  more  or  less  directly,  conducted  to  almost  every  apart- 
ment in  the  house.  Adjoining  her  own  was  a  small  room, 
not  much  more  than  a  closet,  which  had  been  assigned  to  the 
waiting  maid  Juana.  Into  this  she  looked  boldly  ;  intending,  if 
the  girl  were  yet  awake,  to  speak  to  her  of  some  object,  any 
but  that  which  she  really  had  in  view.  But  the  girl,  as  she  ex- 
pected, from  a  previous  knowledge  of  her  habits,  already  slept 
profoundly.  She  closed  the  door  cautiously  behind  her,  and, 
with  feet  set  down  carefully,  she  i-tole  along  the  passage  leading 
to  the  opposite  quarter  of  the  house.  The  passage,  at  a  certain 
point,  divided,  one  arm  conducting  to  the  apartment  of  Don  Bal- 
thazar, the  other  to  guest-chambers  ;  opposite  to  these  was  a  saloon 
which  was  usually  employed  in  the  colder  seasons  of  the  year. 
The  stairway,  terminating  the  passage,  led  below  to  servants' 
apartments,  kitchen,  and  store-rooms,  and  constituted,  in  particu- 
lar, the  province  over  which  Anita  presided.  Hither  were  the 
f  >otsteps  of  Olivia  directed  ;  but  when  she  reached  the  place 
where  the  passage  divided — her  own  lamp  being  shaded — she 
:  jusht  a  glimpse  of  a  light  streaming  from  beneath  the  door  of 
f  «?r  uncle's  chamber.  Up  to  this  moment  the  house  Had  he«.m 
silence  ;  now  she  fancied  she  heard  voices 


THE  CONSPIRATORS.  91 

from  this  quarter.  Who  could  be  the  parties  ?  Who  tut  her 
cruel  enemy,  her  uncle — the  man  who  had  abused  his  trust,  and 
made  the  very  ties  of  blood  the  means  by  which  to  violate  them 
aJl? — -who  but  he  and  the  malignant  creature  whom  she  no  less 
feared  ? — the  unnatural  cross  of  races,  to  neither  of  which  had  na- 
ture vouchsafed  any  of  her  most  blessed  and  compensating  qual- 
ities. And  what  should  be  the  subject  of  their  discussion  ? — 
Was  she  not  their  victim  1 — Were  they  not  even  then,  as  at  all 
times,  meditating  how  best  to  circumvent  her  innocence,  and 
subdue  her  to  the  creature  whom  she  could  not  think  of  but  with 
horror  and  self-loathing  ?  Perhaps  she  may  hear  what  they  med- 
itate, may  learn  their  secrets,  and  find  a  mean  to  escape  their  arts. 
Olivia  did  not  suffer  any  doubts  of  propriety  to  prevent  her 
from  endeavoring  to  fathom  their  secrets.  Her  proceeding  was 
fully  justified  by  her  situation.  She  set  down  her  lamp  at  an 
angle  of  the  passage,  and  covered  it  with  the  handkerchief;  then 
stole  forward  to  the  door  of  the  chamber  which  held  the  conspir- 
ators. Through  a  crevice — the  joinery  of  that  region,  in  that 
day,  gave  little  heed  to  finish — she  was  enabled  to  see  a  part  of 
the  outline  of  her  two  enemies.  They  were  both  seated,  and  the 
wine-cup  was  before  them.  They  were  speaking  earnestly,  but 
in  such  subdued  accents,  that  she  strove  vainly  to  gather  more 
than  a  word  at  intervals.  We  have  been  more  fortunate  ;  and, 
except  for  her  own  sake,  need  not  regret  that  she  was  disap- 
pointed. But  she  could  see  ;'  and  it  so  happened  that  it  was  even 
while  she  gazed,  that  Anita  held  up  to  Don  Balthazar  the  little  phial 
containing  her  drug,  in  order  to  indicate  to  him  the  dose  which 
she  usually  bestowed  upon  her  victim.  Olivia  beheld  the  phial 
and  the  action,  and  inferred  the  rest.  Oh  !  how  her  eyes  flashed 
and  her  soul  flamed,  up  as  she  beheld.  Bitter  was  the  feeling  in 
her  heart,  which  nearly  drove  the  unuttered  curse  of  her  spirit 
out,  aloud,  through  her  closely  compressed  lips.  But  she  grew 
firm,  surveyed  silently,  and  saw  the  phial  restored  to  the  bosom 
of  the  crone.  After  a  while,  as  .«he  found  it  impossible  to  hear 
what  was  spoken,  her  former  resolve  returned  to  her;  and, 
though  with  some  reluctance,  she  receded  softly  from  the  door, 


92  VASCOXSELOS. 

resumed  her  lamp,  and  proceeded  by  the  little  flight  which  con- 
ducted below,  to  the  apartments  in  the  rear,  which  were  assigned 
especially  to  Anita.  These  were  easily  accessible ;  Anita  never 
suspecting  any  visitor,  and  least  of  all  the  one  in  question,  during 
her  absence.  Here,  the  poor  girl,  after  curiously  surveying  the 
region  into  which  she  had  not  before  often  penetrated,  began  her 
search  after  food.  She  reasonably  supposed  that  any  provisions 
which  she  should  find  in  these  precincts  would  be  found  undrug- 
ged.  There  was  a  basket  of  cakes,  such  as  had  never  been 
brought  to  her ;  of  these  she  gathered  a  small  number,  taking 
care  so  to  select  them  as  not  to  disturb  the  general  appearance 
of  the  pile.  She  found  some  "  cold  baked  meats,"  also — some 
fragments  of  a  bird-pie,  and  other  matters  of  the  same  sort,  such 
as  had  not  been  displayed  among  the  cates  usually  provided  for 
her.  Anita,  it  was  apparent,  was  by  no  means  regardless  of  her 
own  appetites.  She  had  a  taste  for  nice  things,  and,  like  most 
persons  of  inferior  race,  was  in  the  possession  of  an  enormous 
appetite.  Olivia  fed  freely  while  storing  her  spoils  away  in  a  lit- 
tle basket  which  she  had  appropriated  from  a  collection  in  the 
closet  of  the  crone.  With  the  basket  in  one  hand  and  her  little 
half-shaded  lamp  in  the  other,  she  prepared  to  effect  her  return  to 
her  own  chamber ;  but  hardly  had  she  emerged  from  the  old 
woman's  apartments,  when  she  heard  the  shuffling  of  feet  upon 
the  stair-flight,  while  a  suppressed  cough  attested  the  approach 
of  the  very  person  upon  whose  domain  she  had  been  trespassing. 
Here  was  a  dilemma.  To  say  that  she  had  any  fears,  in  the 
event  of  discovey,  would  be  absurd.  The  domain  was  hers. 
The  food  which  she  had  seemed  to  pilfer  was,  in  fact,  the  proceeds 
of  her  own  estates.  But  the  action  would  have  betrayed  her  se- 
cret suspicions,  which  it  was  her  policy  for  the  present  to  conceal, 
and  would  only  prompt  her  enemies  to  resort  to  new  schemt's 
which  it  might  not  be  possible  for  her  to  detect  and  overthrow. 
With  the  bitter  feelings  of  her  soul  duly  increased  with  the  necessity 
which fhenowfeltof  concealment  underthese  circumstances, Olivia 
silently  receded  along  the  path  the  had  come.  Still  the  shuffling  of  ihe 
old  woman's  feet  was  heard,  the  cough  increased  in  frequency 


THE   HIDING   PLACE.  93 

• 

and  force.  There  was  but  one  course  for  the  unhappy  girl,  and 
that  was  to  hide  herself  in  the  very  chamber  of  the  enemy;  if, 
indeed,  this  were  possible.  Fortunately,  her  strength  rose  with 
the  emergency.  Her  mind  became  clearer  under  the  pressure  ; 
indignant  feelings  gave  her  resolution,  and  she  stepped  back 
firmly  to  the  tabooed  region,  as  quickly  as  she  might  with  safety, 
and  there  looked  about  her  for  a  place  of  refuge.  _ 

She  was  not  long  in  resolving  upon  a  spot  in  which  to  shroud 
herself.  The  chamber  was  one  of  ample  dimensions,  and  it  had 
two  spacious  closets.  But  Olivia  was  prudently  apprehensive 
that  the  old  woman  might  look  into  these;  she  cast  about  for  a 
place  of  better  promise.  Anita  had  the  negro  faculty  of  accu- 
mulation in  high  degree.  To  those  who  know  anything  of  the 
habits  of  this  race  of  people,  it  will  readily  be  conjectured  that 
a  person  in  such  a  situation  as  that  which  she  enjoyed,  and  of  her 
age,  had  gathered  about  her  an  infinite  treasure  of  the  cast-off 
possessions  of  the  whites.  Her  room  was  accordingly  as  well 
crowded  with  old  clothes  as  the  warehouse  of  a  London  clothes- 
man.  They  hung  about  the  walls ;  they  lay  upon  the  chair-, ; 
(hey  were  suspended  upon  lines  crossing  the  room  obliquely  ;  and 
a  huge  wooden  horso,  occupying  a  large  portion  of  one  corner, 
was  absolutely  massed  with  them.  Behind  this  convenient  bulk 
Olivia  succeeded  in  shrouding  herself  a  few  seconds  before  the 
light  which  the  withered  crone  carried  began  to  glimmer  in  the 
chamber.  Here,  scarce  breathing,  she  crouched,  with  all  the 
ji.i'ienre  and  resolution  which  she  could  command,  awaiting  the 
moment  when  the  hag  should  sleep,  in  order  to  attempt  her  es- 
cape. Tho,  interval  was  sufficiently  tedious,  and  trying  to  fear 
and  patience.  Anita  had  many  things  to  do,  and  she  brought 
with  her  the  remnant  of  the  flask  of  wine  of  which  Don  Baltha- 
7-ir  and  herself  had  been  drinking.  She  had  yet  to  try  its  <jiinl- 
i: y  \vh.-n  a!(;i!'\  She  did  so,  and  drank  with  a  rare  gusto.  Then 
sh--  inum-hod  of  a  biscuit,  and  then  she  adjusted  lu-r  bed-clothes. 
i";:;;;l!y.  she  opened  and  looked  into  certain  boxes,  and  carefully 
-  d  them  again,  before  she  seated  herself.  In  all  these  per- 
formances, the  poor  ..:irl  behind  the  clothes-horse  was  b  !•'  \'.'. 


94  VASCONSELOS. 

• 

continual  apprehension.  Several  times  the  old  hag  approached 
the  place  of  her  concealment.  Once  she  absolutely  proceeded 
to  take  from  it  some  of  its  articles  of  bed-furniture  ;  to  dispose 
of  cloaks  and  shawls,  and  rearrange  the  disordered  drapery. 
Olivia,  all  the  while,  cowering  and  crouching  like  a  guilty  person, 
dreading  to  be  discovered  and  haled  into  the  light.  But  she  es- 
caged ;  the  crone  receded  to  other  parts  of  the  room,  having,  it 
would  seem,  a  variety  of  domestic  cares,  separate  from  those 
which  concerned  the  young  lady  and  the  Don,  her  uncle.  Mean- 
while, the  damsel  watched  all  her  proceedings  with  no  small  in- 
terest. With  careful  finger,  she  made  for  herself  an  aperture  be- 
tween the  massed  garments  upon  the  horse,  through  which  she 
could  behold  all  that  took  place  within  the  chamber.  And  it  was 
with  momently  increasing  interest  that  she  saw  what  numerous 
cares  occupied  the  soul  of  that  old  woman,  momently  hovering 
over  the  very  verge  of  existence.  How  she  had  accumulated  ; 
with  what  method  she  examined  and  arranged  ;  with  what  caution 
she  put  away ;  with  what  heed*  she  counted  and  reviewed  her 
treasures,  as  if  she  was  required  to  provide  for  a  thousand  years. 
Olivia  was  confounded  at  the  extent  and  sort  of  possessions  which 
the  aged  crone  could  show ;  the  constant  spoliations  of  a  long  life. 
There  were  chests  and  boxes,  all  of  which  she  opened  and  ex- 
amined, lifting  to  the  light,  and  surveying  some  of  the  contents, 
with  the  same  gratification,  no  doubt,  which  she  felt  when  she  had 
first  pilled  them  from  the  noble  lord  or  lady  whom  she  served,  her 
master  or  their  guests.  Olivia  beheld  little  trinkets  there  lifted 
up  to  sight,  which  she  herself  might  claim.  She  recognized 
others,  which  had  been  the  property  of  friends.  These  were  all 
commonly  associated  with  treasures  of  quite  another  character. 
Among  the  possessions  of  Anita  there  was  quite-an  armory.  There 
were  hauberk,  and  helm,  and  lance-head,  and  dagger,  and  silver 
spur,  and  brass,  and  gorget,  and  coat-of-mail,  and  escanpil  of  cot- 
ton, and  bright  targe  of  polished  steel.  But  we  forbear  the  cat- 
alogue. Enough  that  this  acquisitiveness  of  Anita  had  been  for 
sixty  years  without  restraint,  exercised  in  a  variety  of  situations, 
and  of  large  opportunities,  and  that  she  had  been  as  successful  in 


ANITA'S  COUCHER.  95 

concealing  as  she  was  avid  in  securing  her  spoil.  Her  treasures 
thus  acquired,  included  fruits  and  spices,  silks  and  satins,  rare 
velvets,  tiffany  and  lawn,  jellies  and  syrops,  tinct  with  rose  and 
cinnamon,  fresh  from  Sam  arc  and  and  Ind.  She  had  money,  too, 
in  considerable  store,  and  into  the  slit  of  a  box  in  one  of  her 
chests  she  dropped  a  newly-gotten  castellano,  probably  the  gift 
of  Don  Balthazar  that  very  night. 

Olivia  now  began  to  grow  weary  of  her  watch,  which  had  yet 
proved  so  instructive.  Her  anxieties  and  apprehensions,  as  well 
as  weariness,  promised,  however,  soon  to  be  relieved.  The 
crone  began  to  disrobe  herself  for  the  night.  This  performance, 
but  for  a  single  circumstance,  would  have  been  totally  without 
interest  to  the  spectator.  But,  one  of  the  first  necessities  of 
Anita,  after  stripping  off  her  outer  garments,  was  to  take  from  her 
bosom  the  little  phial  which  Olivia  had  seen  her  exhibit  to  her 
uncle.  This  she  placed  upon  the  table,  where  it  fastened  the  eye 
of  the  -damsel,  and  held  it  with  a  singular  fascination.  In  that 
phial  lay  her  fate !  That  was  the  potent  spell  which  had  so 

chained  her  senses,  until but  the  thought  almost  maddened 

her,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  she  restrained  herself  from 
rushing  forth,  and  giving  utterance  to  her  wild  passion,  in  the 
wildest  phrensies  of  speech  and  action.  With  a  strenuous  exer- 
tion of  her  will  only,  did  she  forbear ;  and,  still  keeping  her  eye 
upon  the  phial,  she  continued  in  her  place  of  watch  in  quiet. 

Meanwhile,  Anita  had  assumed  her  night-dress.  This  done, 
she  addressed  herself  to  her  prayers.  She,  too,  could  pray  ;  but 
hers  was  not  the  prayer  of  agony,  and  a  terrible  strife.  She 
simply  obeyed  a  habit,  which  but  too  commonly  deceives  the 
miserable  wretch  into  a  false  security.  But  her  devotions  seemed 
to  her  sufficiently  satisfactory.  They  were  coupled  with  a  sort  of 
penance,  whether  self-imposed  or  otherwise  we  need  not  inquire. 
Kneeling  before  a  little  image  of  the  dying  Christ,  she  entreated 
his  mercy  ;  then  crawled  on  her  hands  and  knees,  without  rising 
once,  across  the  room  to  her  couch,  which  stood  opposite,  and 
ccly  raised  herself  that  she  might  make  her  way  into  the  bed. 


96  VASCONSELOS. 

No  doubt  her  conscience  was  quite  satisfied  with  the  Deity  which 
made  her  toils  no  weightier. 

The  soul  of  Olivia  was  in  great  agitation.  Fettered  in  a  con- 
strained  position,  anxiously  dreading  and  expecting  discovery,  ex- 
cited by  what  she  had  seen,  and  moved  by  a  purpose  which  she 
had  not  yet  declared  to  herself,  and  which  was  still  working  in 
her  thought,  she  was  yet  compelled  to  remain  quiet  until 
the  old  woman  slept.  Now,  age  does  not  sleep  easily,  or  very 
soundly :  and  it  was  a  long  time  still,  before  Olivia  could  be 
sure  of  the  proof  which  taught  her  that  Anita  could  no  longer, 
hear  and  see.  At  length,  persuaded  that  she  might  venture  out 
with  safety,  she  did  so.  The  light  in  the  apartment  guided  her 
movements.  She  approached  the  bed,  and  surveyed  the  sleeper 
with  curiosity.  The  withered  features,  though  composed  in  the 
calm  of  sleep,  still  seemed  to  wear,  in  the  eyes  of  the  damsel,  the 
expression  of  that  malignant  hatred  with  which  she  felt  sure 
that  Anita  had  always  regarded  her.  She,  herself,  looked  upon 
the  sleeper  with  features  of  indignant  loathing.  She  turned  away 
quickly  and  proceeded  to  the  table.  The  vague  suggestion 
which  had  been  working  in  her  mind  had  grown  into  a  resolu- 
tion. She  seized  the  phial,  whose  mysterious  powers  she  be- 
lieved herself  to  have  felt,  and  without  hesitation  poured  a  por- 
tion of  its  contents  into  the  wine-flask.  There  were  still  several 
draughts  of  the  liquor  in  it ;  she  knew  the.  old  woman's  appetite 
for  the  juices  of  the  grape,  and  pleased  herself  with  the  idea  that 
she  would  drink,  and  sleep  ; — such  a  sleep  as  had  been  so  often 
imposed  upon  her  own  senses,  and  to  such  cruel  results.  In  that 
sleep  of  twenty-four  hours — for  such  was  the  term  which  Olivia 
assigned  to  the  action  of  the  potion — she,  herself,  would  enjoy  a 
measure  of  liberty  which  had  been  long  unknown.  She  would 
then  explore  the  household,  and  provide  herself — so  moderate 
was  ho,r  calculation — such  a  sufficient  supply  of  proper  food, 
from  the  stores  of  the  housekeeper,  as  would  keep  her,  for  a 
while,  at  least,  free  from  the  necessity  of  partaking  of  Her  dosed 
dishes.  Having  executed  her  purpose,  there  was  no  longer  a 


THE   DREAM.  97 

motive  \o  remain,  at  the  risk  of  detection,  and  seizing  upon  her 
basket  and  lamp,  she  disappeared  in  safety.  The  clasp  of  the 
door  yielded,  and  was  closed  without  noise  ;  the  passage  proved 
free ;  the  light  had  disappeared  from  beneath  the  door  of  her 
uncle;  and  Olivia  regained  her  chamber  without  embarrassment. 
Here  she  proceeded  to  satisfy  her  hunger,  in  some  degree,  upon 
the  cates  of  which  she  possessed  herself.  For  the  remainder 
she  sought  a  hiding-place,  which  she  supposed  to  be  unsuspected. 
These  put  away,  the  poor  girl  threw  herself  once  more  before 
the  image  of  the  Virgin,  in  prayer.  She  could  pray.  She  was 
conscious  of  suffering,  but  not  of  guilt ;  and,  as  she  looked 
up,  she  fancied  that  the  picture  smiled  upon  her.  Upon  this 
smile  she  slept  and  dreamed  pleasantly  ;  and,  in  her  dream,  be- 
held the  image  of  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  occupying  the  place  of 
the  Virgin,  and  looking  down  upon  her  with  even  more  loving 
sweetness. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

"  Oh,  detti !  .  .  .  Oh,  sguardi !  .  .  .  A  gran  pena  repiglio 
I  sensi  miei.     Che  mai  diss  'egli  ?    Avrebbe 
Forse  il  mio  amor  ?  .  .  .  Ma,  no  !    Racchiuro  stammi 
Nel  piu  addentro  del  core." — ALFIERI. — Fmppo. 

THUS  dreaming,  the  sleep  of  Olivia  de  Alvaro  was  fortunately 
a  protracted  one.  Nature,  thus,  asserts  for  herself  some  happy 
hours,  even  in  a  life  which  is  one  of  unfailing  sorrows.  She  slept 
late.  In  the  meantime,  the  girl  Juana  had  been  several  times  in 
her  chamber.  Her  movements  finally  awakened  the  sleeper,  who 
found  that  the  day  had  considerably  advanced.  The  morning  re- 
past was  already  awaiting  her.  She  arose,  and  her  toilet  was  as- 
sisted by  the  girl  in  waiting.  This  performed,  Olivia  dismissed 
her,  preferring  to  take  her  breakfast  alone.  A  portion  of  this 
she  hurriedly  put  from  sight,  to  be  thrown  away,  or  otherwise 
disposed  of,  at  a  fitting  opportunity.  Meanwhile,  she  pacified  her 
appetite  by  a  free  use  of  the  cates  which  she  had  appropriated 
from  the  stores  of  the  old  woman.  A  more  buoyant  feeling  pre- 
vailed in  her  bosom,  the  natural  effect  of  the  temporary  security 
which  she  felt.  She  had  found  a  respite — had  gained  time — which, 
in  the  case  of  youth,  is  always  felt  to  be  a  gain  of  importance. 
At  all  events,  she  was  for  so  many  hours  safe,  so  she  thought,  from 
the  dangers  of  that  drugging  influence  which,  for  a  long  time,  had 
been  sapping  her  strength,  and  placing  her  completely  at  the 
mercy  of  those  who  had  so  terribly  abused  their  advantages  and 
power.  Juana  reappeared,  removed  the  breakfast  things,  and 
proceeded  to  her  household  duties.  Olivia,  all  this  while,  saw 
nothing  of  her  uncle  ;  and  finally  ascertained  that  he  had  left  the 
dwelling  at  an  early  hour  for  the  city.  Her  hope  was,  that,  as 
was  usually  the  case,  she  would  sec  no  more  of  him  during  the 


A   VISITOR   EXPECTED.  99 

d;i\ .  To  be  free  from  his  presence  was  now  always  a  source  of 
relief  to  her.  Whether  she  thought  more  favorably  of  the  pres- 
ence of  another  we  may  conjecture  only  ;  but  we  may  mention 
that  towards  noon  she  proceeded  to  make  her  toilet  anew,  and 
seemingly  with  some  regard  to  visitors.  Her  dress  was  carefully 
selected,  and  as  carefully  adjusted.  She  wore  a  rich  necklace  of 
pearls ;  and  a  bandeau  of  pearls  encircled  her  forehead,  twined 
tastefully  in  with  the  dark  tresses  of  her  glossy  hair.  She  was, 
amidst  all  her  grief,  as  the  Greek  poet  describes  Electra  in  her 
mourning,  who  clipt  only  the  "extremity  of  her  locks,"  "heedful 
of  beauty,  the  same  woman  still !"  Alas,  Olivia  de  Alvaro  was 
still  a  child  only, — scarcely  more  than  seventeen.  Grief,  and  a 
terribly  depressing  sense  of  shame,  had  done  much  towards  ma- 
turing her  passions.  But  she  had  enjoyed  too  little  communion 
with  the  world  to  have  done  much  towards  maturing  her  intel- 
lect. She  felt  shame  and  sorrow,  but  she  felt  love  also ;  and 
girlhood  was  still  strong  within  her ;  and  hope  was  not  wholly 
crushed  within  her  heart.  Yet,  even  while  she  habited  her  per- 
son as  if  with  an  eye  to  charm,  she  was  troubled  with  misgiv- 
ings such  as,  more  than  once,  caused  her  to  droop  and  sadden, 
and  finally  sink  down  upon  her  couch,  and  give  way  to  a  full  flood 
of  sorrows.  What  right  had  she  to  hope ;  what  hope  to  be  hap- 
py ;  how  presume  to  dream  of  the  precious  affections  of  another, 
when  these  could  be  given  with  the  presumption  only  that  she 
was  fully  deserving  of  them  all !  The  very  truthfulness  of  her 
own  passion  prompted  this  just  consideration  of  what  was  due  to 
the  affections  of  another.  ,  But  youth  and  girlhood,  and  her  own 
desires,  finally  triumphed.  She  rose  amidst  her  tears.  She  com- 
pleted her  toilet.  She  arranged  her  tresses,  and  arrayed  her  jew- 
els for  conquest.  Why  should  she  not  love,  and  loving,  why  not 
hope  1  Wras  not  her  love  sufficiently  warm, — her  soul  sufficiently 
dt-v(,'1ed, — to  render  Philip  de  Vasconselos  happy?  She  had,  it 
is  true,  a  secret,  which  it  would  be  fatal  to  her  hope  were  he  to 
know ;  but  how  should  he  ever  know  ? — And,  "  O  !  Blessed  Vir- 
gin," she  exclaimed,  looking  up  at  the  benign  mother,  "  am  I  to 
perish  for  the  cruel  deeds,  the  guilty  passions  of  another !" 


100  VASCOXSELOS. 

It  was  not  difficult,  though  the  subject  of  a  long,  secret  strug. 
gle  in  her  own  soul,  to  reconcile  herself  to  a  conviction  which 
promised  her  the  happiness  which  she  desired.  Her  passion 
proved  too  strong  for  her  conscientiousness,  and  her  reasons 
readily  gave  themselves,  as  they  but  too  commonly  do,  to  the 
requisitions  of  the  former.  Her  philosophy  is  probably  that  of 
thousands  in  like  situations.  The  fond  heart  of  woman  is  too 
much  dependent  for  its  life  on  the  affections,  not  to  be  easily 
persuaded  by  an  argument  which  sustains  the  cause  of  the  latter. 
The  love  which  Olivia  felt  for  Philip  de  Vasconselos  was  too 
precious  to  her  soul  to  yield  in  such  a  struggle  ;  and  the  result 
was,  that  she  determined,  though  with  shuddering  and  trembling, 
should  he  offer  her  his  hand,  to  subdue  her  fears,  her  sense  of 
justice,  all  scruples  of  whatever  sort,  and  accept  the  blessing 
which  her  heart  craved  as  its  very  breath  of  life.  What  could 
her  uncle  do  ?  What  could  he  dare  ]  The  word  from  his  lips 
that  would  blast  her,  would  seal  his  own  ruin  and  disgrace  for- 
ever !  She  would  be  true  to  Philip,  as  true  as  woman  ever  yet 
was  to  man  ; — he  would  protect  her  from  all  abuse  and  outrage 
— would  rescue  her  from  the  hostile  power  from  which  she  had 
most  -reason  to  fear  both ;  and  in  the  pure  devotion  of  the  future, 
might  she  not  hope  to  repair  the  misfortunes  of  the  past  in  which 
she  could  conscientiously  affirm,  that,  however  much  she  might 
have  been  the  victim  of  the  guilty,  she  had  never  been  wittingly 
the  participator  in  his  crime  ? 

Soothed,  if  not  wholly  satisfied, assured  in  some  degree,  by  the 
solacing  sort  of  argument  through  which* her  mind  had  past,  Olivia 
proceeded  to  the  latticed  verandah,  and  from  thence  descended 
into  the  shrubbery.  Ah !  the  innocent  flower !  ah  !  the  uncon- 
scious bloom,  and  the  unsuspected  blossom  !  How  they  appealed 
to  her !  and  whispered — such  whispers  as  made  her  turn  away 
from  them  with  averted  head,  while  upon  her  pale  cheek  there 
might  have  been  seen  a  flush  as  deep  and  vivid  as  a  warm  sun- 
set in  a  humid  sky.  She  returned  to  the  verandah,  closing  its 
lattices,  letting  down  its  curtains,  and  shutting  out  the  sharper 
es  of  the  «luy.  Then  she  throw  h-.T-vlf  upon  the  sett"«-  ->f 


A  VISITOR.  101 

wicker-work  and  cane,  and  covered  her  sad  eyes  with  her  hands 
iu  a  sorrowful  meditation.  Leaving  her  thus  abstracted  for 
awhile,  let  us  proceed  to  other  parties. 

That  morning,  Philip  de  Vasconselos  had  eaten  his  humble 
meal  alone,  and  in  silence.  Andres  was  absent ;  whither  he 
knew  notf  and  the  younger  brother  was  of  a  temper,  and  just 
now  in  such  a  mood,  that  it  was  only  a  safe  policy  in  the  elder, 
not  to  seem  too  curious  hi  any  of  his  affairs.  Philip,  though 
naturally  and  humanely  troubled  about  the  fate  of  Andres, 
sympathizing  with  him  very  sincerely  in  his  disappointments, 
was  yet  too  human  to  be  deeply  grieved  by  the  one  misfortune 
— over  all — which  his  brother  felt,  in  the  denial  of  his  mistress. 
It  would  not,  indeed,  have  been  quite  in  nature,  not  to  have  felt 
his  own.  hopes  revive  pleasurably  at  the  knowledge.  lie  was 
conscious  of  an  exulting  feeling  in  his  bosom,  accordingly; 
which,  knowing  its  source,  he  labored,  though  unsuccessfully,  to 
school  and  to  rebuke.  But  this  labor  did  not  prevent  him  from 
making  his  toilet  that  morning  with  extreme  care,  and  resolving 
to  visit  the  fair  Olivia.  In  this  purpose  he  was  seconded  by  the 
counsels  of  the  gay  gallant  Nuno  de  Tobar,  who  suddenly  broke 
in  upon  him,  and  finding  him  alone,  gave  free  vent  to  his  encour- 
agements. Somehow,  he  too  had  heard  of  the  defeat  of  Andres, 
and  he  urged 'it  as  one  of  the  signs  in  favor  of  his  friend.  But 
Philip  shook  his  head  gravely.  He  valued  the  Lady  Olivia  too 
highly  to  fancy  that  she  would  be  easy  of  attainment.  His  pas- 
sion was  too  earnest,  not  to  prompt  him  to  a  very  severe  ques- 
tioning of  his  own  merits,  and  to  this  effect  was  his  reply  to 
Tobar.  But  the  latter  loudly  denounced  his  excessive  modesty, 
and  urged  a  thousand  proofs,  each  conclusive  to  his  own  audacious 
spirit,  for  the  encouragement  of  his  friend.  In  the  end,  they 
proceeded  together  to  the  dwelling  of  the  lady. 

In  the  meanwhile,  her  uncle  had  suddenly  made  his  appear- 
ance, bringing  with  him  another  visitor.  This  was  a  gaily  dress- 
ed cavalier,  sufficiently  comely  of  person,  and  smooth  of  face, 
to  be  satisfied  with  himself;  but  who  possessed  few  distinguish- 
ing traits  by  which  to  compel  attention  or  respect.  Still,  if 


102  VASCONSELOS. 

Olivia  was  to  wed  with  any  body,  this  was  the  person  whom  her 
uncle  was  most  pleased  to  tolerate.  He  may  have  had  special 
reasons  for  this  preference.  Such,  at  least,  was  the  belief  of 
Olivia,  to  whom  Don  Balthazar  had  more  than  once  spoken  on 
the  subject.  He  himself  frequently  afforded  to  the  young  gal- 
lant the  means  of  being  with  his  niece  in  private.  Don  Augus- 
tin  de  Sinolar  was  one  of  the  passable  gentlemen  that  go  to  make 
up  what  is  csilled  good  society.  He  came  of  respectable  family, 
enjoyed  respectable  possessions,  obeyed  the  usual  laws  of  fashion, 
and  never  trespassed  upon  the  proprieties  of  the  circle.  He  was 
confident  of  speech,  and  was  always  in  possession  of  the  latest 
intelligence  which  could  please  the  persons  present  by  dispar- 
aging the  absent.  He  was  no  less  devotedly  the  lover  of  Olivia 
than  were  the  brothers  Vasconselos — that  is,  so  far  as  concerned 
the  externals  of  devotion.  But  the  essentials  of  an  earnest  pas- 
sion, of  any  sort,  were  not  within  the  nature  of  De  Sinolar. 
He  was  of  marriageable  years  and  person,  and  an  establishment 
was  necessary  to  his  position,  a  wife  was  necessary  to  his  es- 
tablishment, and  he  required  rank  as  a  first  condition  in  the  dam- 
sel he  should  espouse.  Other  requisites  were  wholly  subordinate. 
The  ordinary  secret  of  this  ordinary  gentleman,  who,  even  in  the 
workings  of  his  passions,  obeys  rigidly  a  conventional  arrange- 
ment, was  that  which  made  his  policy  ;  and  to  do  the  agreeable  to 
his  mistress,  as  a  carpet  knight,  was  the  extent  of  his  perform- 
ance in  the  effort  to  secure  favor.  Had  Olivia  been  of  a  like 
temper,  De  Sinolar  would  have  proved  a  formidable  rival  to 
either  of  the  Portuguese  brothers.  The  small  graces  of  society, 
the  tea-table  heroics,  were  in  the  possession  of  neither.  Philip 
de  Vasconselos  was  particularly  deficient  in  such  arts.  He  was 
of  a  grave,  calm,  reserved  nature,  too  earnestly  in  love  to 
meditate  his  conquests  by  any  ordinary  means.  He  could  only 
show,  as  he  did  without  his  own  consciousness,  perhaps,  how  pre- 
cious in  his  eyes  was  the  object  of  his  passion.  The  woman  of 
h'arl  soon  distinguishes  between  two  such  suitors,  and  if  she  deter- 
mines in  favor  of  either,  does  not  hesitate  long  in  declaring  for 
him  whose  earnestness  is  congenial  with  her  own.  It  is  the  woman, 


A  NEW  RIVAL.  103 

whose  character  has  been  too  feeble  to  withstand  the  coercive 
shaping  of  fashion  merely,  who  is  usually  caught  by  him  who 
is  cool  enough  always  to  make  himself  agreeable  simply  as  a 
companion. 

The  two  friends  found  De  Sinolar  in  possession  of  the  ground, 
and  eagerly  displaying  to  the  eyes  of  the  languid  Olivia  a  col- 
lection  of  silks  and  shawls,  which  he  had  purchased  for  the  ap- 
proaching tourney.  The  entrance  of  Don  Philip  and  De  Tobar 
afforded  De  Sinolar  an  opportunity  of  dilating  to  a  larger  audience 
upon  the  excellence  of  his  tastes  in  the  choice  of  silks  and 
colors.  De  Tobar  lent  him  a  ready  attention,  the  better  to 
afford  his  friend  the  desired  opportunities  with  Olivia.  Her  eye 
was  cast  down,  but  brightened,  at  his  approach.  He  was  not 
annoyed  at  the  presence  of  the  others,  since  it  was  not  his  pur- 
pose yet  to  approach  the  subject  of  his  passion.  The  encouraging 
assurances  of  his  friend  had  failed  as  yet  to  prompt  him  so  soon 
to  peril  his  hope  upon  the  question.  He  seated  himself  near  her, 
however,  and  spoke  to  her  in  those  subdued  tones  which  are  so 
grateful  to  the  ears  of  lovers  ;  his  deep,  grave,  almost  sad  glance, 
looking  all  the  while,  as  it  were,  down  into  her  heart.  She  caught  a 
glimpse  of  this  look,  but  suffered  herself  only  a  moment's  gaze. 
That  moment  was  enough  to  remind  her  of  her  dreams  by  night, 
when  she  had  seen  the  same  sweet,  sad,  soliciting  glances  gazing 
upon  her  from  the  place  which  was  occupied  by  the  picture  of 
the.Virgin.  The  approaching  departure  of  the  expedition  for 
Florida  became  naturally  the  subject  of  conversation,  and  afford- 
ed a  clue  to  De  Sinolar,  which  prompted  him  to  leave  for  awhile 
his  satins. 

"  Ah!  yes!  we  shall  shortly  hear  of  your  departure,  Sefior," 
said  he ;  "  and  yet,  by  the  way,  I  know  not  if  I  rightly  include 
you  in  the  expedition.  They  say,  Sefior,  that  you  have  not  yet 
declared  whether  you  accompany  Don  Hernan  or  riot ;  and 
some  say,  again,  that  you  have  half  resolved  not  to  go.  Can  it 
be  so?  Now  one  should  think  that  there  could  be  no  doubt  about 
your  purpose.  Else  why  should  you  come  from  Portugal,  to 


104  VASCONSELOS. 

the  new  Indies,  if  it  were  not  to  better  fortune  by  conquest 
among  the  savages'?" 

'•  Unless,"  answered  Tobar,  with  a  laugh,  "  he  might  better 
fortune  by  a  conquest  among  the  saints  ;" — and  he  looked  mis- 
chievously at  Olivia  as  he  spoke. 

De  Sinolar  was  for  a  moment  at  fault. 

"  Among  the  saints  ! — I  don't  see.  Oh  !  yes  !  among  the 
ladies  !  Saints  and  angels  !  yes  !  well,  that  were  certainly  less 
dangerous  warfare,  and  one  that  I  much  prefer  myself.  If  that 
is  the  game  of  Don  Philip,  he  is  wiser,  I  am  free  to  confess,  than 
most  soldiers  of  my  knowing.  They  have,  methinks,  precious 
small  value  of  ladies'  favors ;  and  show  but  little  wisdom  ac- 
cordingly. I  beg  you  ten  thousand  pardons,  Senor  Don  Philip, 
but  I  am  bold  to  say  I  have  regarded  you  as  too  much  of  the 
warrior  to  give  heed  to  beauty — too  fond  of  the  tilt  and  spear, 
to  hold  in  overmuch  estimation  the  darts  from  lady's  eyes,  and 
the  wounds  they  give; — wounds,  I  say  it  from  my  soul's  experience, 
such  as  no  army  surgeon  can  be  found  to  heal !" 

Here  he  smote  his  bosom  affectedly,  and  looked  to  Olivia ; 
but  her  eyes  were  upon  the  floor.  Even  the  sigh  of  the  gallant, 
which  followed  his  speech,  was  lost  upon  her  heedless  senses. 
They  were  all  alivev  however,  the  next  moment,  as  the  deep 
tones  of  Vasconselos  answered  De  Sinolar. 

"  You  do  me  wrong,  Don  Augustin,  and  you  do  the  character 
of  the  noble  warrior  wrong,  if  you  assume  either  me,  or  him,  to 
be  insensible  to  the  charms  of  love,  or  the  claims  of  beauty. 
Perhaps,  it  is  the  valiant  man  only,  who  is  always  prepared  to 
sacrifice  himself  where  he  hates,  who  feels  love  to  be  a  sufficient 
power  to  command  self-sacrifice,  if  need  be,  also.  But  I  trow  there 
can  be  no  occasion  for  me  now  to  defend  the  tenderness  and  soft- 
ness of  the  warrior's  heart,  which  hath  been  sufficiently  instanced 
in  all  stages  of  the  world,  and  is  a  thing  usually  acknowledged 
among  all  classes  of  men.  And  for  the  soldier's  regard  for  beauty, 
what  need  have  we  to  look  beyond  a  present  instance  1  For 
what  is  this  tournament  provided,  for  which  you  are  preparing 


IRRESOLUTION.  105 

these  brilliant  colors  and  silks,  but  that  the  valor  of  the  soldier 
may  make  grateful  appeal  to  the  smiles  of  love  and  beauty  ?" 

lie  paused.    Olivia,  looking  down  the  while,  said  in  low  tones — 

"  But,  Senor,  you  have  not  yet  answered  to  the  doubts  of  Don 
Augustin,  touching  your  departure  with  the  expedition." 

"Ah!  true,"  quoth  De  Sinolar — "They  say  that  there  are 
doubts,  yet  was  it  my  thought  that  Don  Hernan  had  shown  you 
the  better  argument." 

"  They  say  rightly,  Senorita,"  replied  Vasconselos  to  Olivia, 
and  scarcely  noticing  De  Sinolar — "  who  say  that  I  have  yet  de- 
termined nothing.  1  am  truly  but  half  resolved  to  depart,  yet 
fully  half  inclined  to  remain.  There  be  private  reasons  for 
this  uncertainty.  Whether  Don  Hernan  will  succeed  in  per- 
suading me — and  it  is  one  of  my  doubts  if  he  desires  so  to  do 
— will  greatly  rest  upon  the  force  of  other  and  opposite  persua 
sions  than  those  of  war.  Perhaps,  it  were  only  wise  with  me, 
to  yield  blindly  to  Don  Hernan's  arguments,  and  look  nothing 
farther." 

It  was  the  tone  with  which  this  last  sentence  was  spoken,  and 
the  look  which  accompanied,  which  held  the  meaning  more  sig- 
nificantly than  the-  words  themselves.  The  sweet,  sad  resigna 
tinii  in  both  went  direct  to  the  heart  of  Olivia.  But  she  cast 
her  eyes  upon  the  floor  and  remained  silent.  But  De  Sinolar, 
•who  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  the  words  spoken,  and  who  was 
no  adept  in  looking  below  the  surface  of  any  thing,  proceeded  in 
his  usual  manner. 

"  Well,  Senor,  it  will  be  needful  that  you  should  decide  short- 
ly. In  a  few  days  we  shall  have  the  tournament,  and  in  a  few 
more,  the  caravels  will  be  all  ready  to  receive  the  armament. 
Then  will  you  embark  the  horses  and  artillery.  These  the  first. 
Then  will  the  foot  soldiers  go  on  board,  and  at  the  last  the 
knights  and  gentlemen.  They  are  baking  famous  quantities  of 
bread,  even  now,  at  lioja's,  and  la  Granja's.  The  adelantado  is 
eager  to  be  at  work  among  the  heathen  savages,  stripping  the 
gold  from  the  altars  and  the  treasure  from  the  rich  cities  of  the 
Apalachian.  Ah  !  Lady  Olivia,  when  these  things  are  going  on, 
5* 


106  VASCONSELOS. 

we  shall  be  as  dull  and  quiet  here  as  if  we  had  never  known 
either  dance  or  music. 

"  These  gay  knights  will  all  be  on  the  path  of  conquest.  Well ! 
For  my  part,  I  say  let  them  conquer  !  I  have  no  passion  for  con- 
quest, and  I  have  no  faith  in  its  fruits.  I  believe  them  to  be  all 
delusions.  One  man  gets  off  with  a  sound  head  and  a  full  pocket, 
but  a  hundred  pays  for  him  with  deadly  wounds,  broken  limbs, 
and  beggary  forever  !  If  one  could  be  sure  that  he  should  be 
the  one,  and  not  one  of  the  hundred,  why,  it  were  pleasant  to 
adventure  ;  but  where  there's  but  one  white  bean  to  a  score  of 
black  ones,  I'm  not  the  man  to  draw,  if  I  can  help  it." 

"  But  the  fame,  Senor — the  glory  f  said  Olivia. 

"  Fame  and  glory  !  They  will  neither  plaister  my  head, 
mend  my  limbs,  nor  find  me  hi  rations.  My  repartimienlo,  here, 
answers  all  my  ambition.  It  lacks  but  a  mistress  to  be  all  the 
empire  I  demand,  and  she,  with  the  blessing  of  the  Virgin,  I  hope 
some  day  to  find  willing  to  my  hands." 

And  here  he  looked  with  a  sudden  tenderness  towards  Olivia. 

"  And  have  you  never  felt  the  eager  desire  for  battle,  Senor  ?" 
quoth  Tobar  : — "  That  joyous  desire  for  the  strife  of  swords  and 
the  crash  of  lances,  which  makes  the  head  throb  with  delirium 
and  the  heart  bound  as  if  it  had  wings  of  its  own,  and  was  about 
to  soar  to  heaven — that  feeling  which  the  adelantado  hath  happi- 
ly described,  from  some  old  heathen  Greek  or  Roman,  as  '  the 
rapture  of  the  strife.' " 

"  No  !  indeed  !  no  such  raptures  for  me.  Any  other  sort  of 
rapture  in  preference  !  Let  it  be  eating,  or  drinking,  or  dancing, 
or  loving — I  care  not  how  vulgar  or  how  simple — the  bull-ring, 
the  cock-pit — nay,  the  siesta, — any  thing  but  the  shouts  and  the 
struggle  of  combatants.  The  tournament  is  enough  for  me.  I've 
tried  that.  I'll  try  it  no  more.  When  I  want  to  break  a  lance, 
I  have  only  to  sally  out  into  the  mountains  after  some  of  my 
runaways.  I  use  a  blunt  spear  on  such  occasions.  Then,  I  charge 
valiantly  enough.  Then,  I  overthrow  and  make  captive.  I  don't 
kill  unless  I  can't  help  mys.-lf ;  since  it  is  more  profitable  and 
pleasant  to  beat  my  Indians  than  to  bury  them." 


A   PHILOSOPHICAL   FOP.  107 

"  Your  humanity  is  commendable,  Senor,"  was  the  somewhat 
cold  response  of  Vasconselos,  who,  indeed,  had  scarcely  heeded 
what  the  other  had  been  saying  ;  and  now  turned  from  him  with  a 
contempt  which  was  sufficiently  apparent.  But  the  other  was  by 
no  means  discomfited  by  an  expression  which  he  clearly  beheld. 
He  replied  very  promptly  and  very  indifferently,  as  if  his  social 
position — his  wealth — put  him  quite  beyond  reproach. 

"  Ah  !  you  scarcely  mean  that,  I  know,  Senor  Don  Philip : 
but  it  matters  nothing.  I  don't  care  who  knows  that  I  am  re- 
solved to  live  while  I  can,  and  risk  no  bones  upon  reputation. 
If  heads  are  to  be  cloven,  let  them  take  the  hardest :  if  brains 
are  to  be  scattered,  it  needs  only  that  you  choose  such  as  can  waste 
little :  if  hard  blows  are  to  be  struck,  get  those  men  only  for 
the  work  who  have  been  trained  to  the  boucan.  'If  you  love 
fighting,  Don  Philip,  it  is  well  for  you :  not  foi  nve.  I  love  it 
not.  You  have  tried  your  hand  at  it,  and  it  suit**  you.  You 
have  fought  against  the  Moors.  You  have  already  had  a  taste 
of  Floridian  fighting,  and  I  have  seen  you  carry  yourself,  even 
sportively,  against  Bartolomeo  de  Gallegos,  and  Senor  Nuno, 
here,  and  I  am  free  to  confess  that  you  are  the  last  person  whom 
I  should  entreat  to  a  supper  of  blades  and  lances.  I  am  only  at 
conflict  with  gentle  woman,"  smiling  sweetly  on  Olivia  ; — "  and 
leave  the  pagan  to  such  brave  knights,  as  yourself.  By  the  way, 
Senor  Don  Philip,  they  tell  me  you  served  with  Francis  Pizarro 
in  Peru !  I  had  forgotten  that." 

"  It  mattered  not,"  answered  Vasconselos  coldly. 

"  Now  there  is  a  man  for  you,  that  Francis  Pizarro.  He's 
the  rough  customer  for  a  weak  stomach.  He's  what  I  call  a 
hero  !  Talk  of  Cortez,  indeed  !  How  should  Hernan  Cortez 
be  a  hero  ?  I've  seen  him  a  hundred  times  when  he  was  nothing 
but  a  farmer,  and  had  a  hacienda  not  half  the  value  of  my  own. 
He  was  lucky,  Senor — very  lucky.  I  remember  him  well.  I 
was  but  a  boy  when  he  worked  his  farm  and  drove  his  mule, 
like  any  other  peasant, — though  they  make  him  now  a  born 
nobleman ;  and  how  could  he  have  got  these  great  honors,  were 
it  not  for  the  blind  fortune  that  puts  one  man  on  the  horse  while 


108  VASCONSELOS. 

his  betters  hold  the  stirrups "?  No!  no!  If  there  be  a  truly 
great  man  of  these  days  and  countries,  it  is  of  a  certainty  the 
noble  Marquis  Pizarro." 

Nuno  de  Tobar  could  scarcely  restrain  his  angry  impatience 
•while  the  fopling  continued  to  discourse  thus  freely  of  the  great 
masters  in  the  art  of  war,  whom  in  that  day  it  was  the  fashion 
to  commend  as  above  all  Greek  and  Roman  fame,  and  he  sharply 
responded  to  the  flippancies  of  De  Sinolar  in  respect  to  Cortez. 
Vasconselos,  on  the  contrary,  gave  him  little  heed,  and  seemed 
not  to  think  it  necessary  to  gainsay  his  opinions.  He  was  con- 
tent that  he  should  "  rabble  on,"  as  it  afforded  him  an  opportu- 
nity to  murmur  a  quiet  remark,  in  under  tones,  to  his  fair  com- 
panion, whose  responses,  brief  and  timid,  were  always  delivered 
in  like  subdued  accents.  It  was  only  when  his  stock  of  small 
talk  was  entirely  exhausted  that  Don  Augustin  was  content  to 
take  his  departure.  This  he  did,  when,  at  the  close  of  a  long 
rambling  speech,  he  had  emptied  his  budget  of  accumulations ; 
what  he  said  being  only  a  repetition  of  what  he  had  heard.  He 
did  not  seem  to  apprehend  any  danger  from  leaving  the  field  to 
his  rival ;  persuading  himself  that  Vasconselos,  though  good 
enough  where  lances  were  splintered,  possessed  too  few  re- 
sources of  the  courtier  to  make  much  progress  where  the  game  de- 
pended on  the  ease  of  the  dialogue  and  the  liveliness  of  the  humor. 

His  departure  was  a  relief  to  all  the  parties.  Nuno  de  Tobar 
soon  after  rose,  and  upon  some  plea  of  flowers,  passed  from  the 
apartment  into  the  garden.  The  lovers  were  alone  together.  A 
wild  thrill  shot  through  the  soul  of  Olivia  at  the  consciousness. 
Her  cheek  flushed — her  frame  trembled  with  emotion.  But  she 
Anew  that  she  was  watched — that  the  eyes  of  Don  Balthazar 
were  upon  her  from  some  quarter — that  love  had  no  security  in 
that  House  of  Fear.  Vasconselos  was  free,  of  course,  of  all 
such  apprehensions.  He  knew  that  Don  Balthazar  had  entered 
the  house  with  De  Sinolar,  but.  as  he  had  seen  nothing  of  him 
after,  he  presumed  that  he  had  quitted  it,  or  was  elsewhere  em- 
ployed. He  drew  nigher  to  where  she  sate. 

"  The  leparture  of  this  expedition,  which  threatens  so  much  to 


TENDER   MOMENTS.  109 

lessen  the  pleasures  of  the  ladies  of  Cuba,  will  give  but  little 
concern,  I  fancy,  to  you.  Scnorita." 

"  And  wherefore  not,  Senor  ]" 

"  You  take  little  delight,  I  fear,  in  such  exercises  as  challenge 
the  best  regards  of  knighthood.  I  have  seen  you  at  very  few 
of  the  gentle  passages  between  the  knights." 

"  True  ;  but  I  am  not  insensible.  I  have  heard  full  reports 
of  their  performances,  and  found  delight  in  the  accounts  of  such 
grace  and  valor,  and  courtesy  and  skill,  as  has  been  rarely  seen." 

"  Yet  would  1  have  beheld  you,  Sefiorita,  among  the  gay  beau- 
ties of  this  island  court,  who  have  stimulated  courtesy  by  their 
'  grace,  and  prompted  achievement  to  great  things  by  their  ap- 
proving smiles.  I  ^ave  looked  for  you,  Sefiorita,  very  often, 
and, — may  I  say  it, — have  sometimes  left  the  field,  as,  seeing 
you  not,  it  has  seemed  to  me  to  lack  its  best  attraction." 

"  Ah  !  Senor,  it  is  the  wont  of  Cavaliers  to  use  this  sort  of 
speech  to  foolish  damsels.  And  why  should  you  leave  a  field, 
where  there  have  been  so  many  beauties  to  cheer,  and  so  many 
sweet  voices  to  encourage  ?" 

"  Yet  was  there  one,  of  all, — one  only,  lady,  whom  I  most 
desired  to  behold." 

"  Ah  !  and  why  should  the  Senor  Philip  be  insensible  to  the 
praises  which  have  daily  hailed  his  passages  on  every  hand  ? 
Who  has  won  the  applauses  and  the  prizes  at  the  several  tourneys  1 
Whose  lanoe  hath  been  most  honored  in  the  conflict  ? — whose 
name  been  most  sounded  ? — in  whose  fame  have  the  multitude 
raised  most  frequently  the  shout  of  acclamation  ?" 

"  Alas  !  lady,  all  these  tributes  are  of  little  value  in  the  ears 
of  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  compared  with  the  sweeter  assurances 
that  might  fall  from  the  lipsof  one,  the  loveliest  virgin  of  all  Cuba!" 

The  eyes  of  Vasconselos  were  fastened  tenderly,  as  he  spoke, 
upon  those  of  Olivia.  Hers  sunk,  bashfully,  beneath  his  glance  ; 
and  a  warm  red  flush  quickly  overspread  her  checks.  Her  hand  lay 
lx  side  him  upon  the  sofa,  which  she  partly  occupied.  His  fingers 
fell  hesitatingly  upon  it ;  and  it  was  not  withdrawn.  She  was 


110  VASCOXSELOS. 

silent — the  beatings  of  her  heart  were  audible,  and  his  bosom 
rose  also  and  sunk,  in  impetuous  responses,  to  the  excited  emo- 
tions which  seemed  to  prevail  in  hers.  He  continued,  more 
eagerly,  and  more  tenderly. 

"  It  may  be  that  mine  is  the  sin  of  presumption,  la'dy  ;  but  of 
a  truth  it  were  a  somewhat  pardonable  sin,  since  its  hope  is  of 
favor  at  the  shrine  of  as  chaste  and  holy  a  passion " 

The  hand  was  instantly  withdrawn,  and  so  hastily,  as  evi- 
dently to  surprise  the  pleader.  He  looked  inquiringly  into  her 
face,  and,  as  he  did  so,  her  cheeks  paled  so  suddenly,  and  to  such 
an  ashen  white,  that  Vasconselos  feared  she  was  about  to  faint. 
But  she  recovered  herself  with  great  effort,  yet  not  so  com- 
pletely as  to  prevent  a  sudden  sobbing,  like  that  of  an  infant  in 
its  sleep,  from  escaping  into  sound. 

"  You  are  ill,  Senorita ;  or  am  I  so  unhappy  as  to  have  offend- 
ed you  ?" 

"  You  have  not  offended  me,  Senor  Philip, — oh !  no!"  was  the  re- 
ply, tremulously  and  hastily  spoken — "  a  momentary  pain  only." 

He  paused,  waiting  on  her  with  a  gentle  and  sweet  solicitude 
that  allowed  no  change  in  her  face  to  escape  his  eyes.  Hers 
sunk  beneath  his  survey,  and  her  cheeks  were  again  suffused 
with  blushes.  This  seemed  a  grateful  omen  to  the  knight  of 
Portugal.  He  resumed  his  pleading — his  hand  again  rested 
upon  her  own  ;  and  hers  was  umvithdrawn,  in  spite  of  the  gen- 
tle pressure  which  detained  it.  She  looked  downwards  as  he 
pleaded. 

"  I  trust,  dear  Senorita,  I  have  not  spoken  too  rashly.  Better 
that  I  were  dumb  forever  than  now  to  offend.  But,  indeed,  you 
must  suffer  me  to  speak.  Indeed,  you  must  hear  me.  Ah  !  if 
you  but  knew,  Senorita,  how  pure  is  the  tribute  of  affection 
which  I  now  offer  to  your  charms  !  Too  well  I  know  the  chaste 
and  holy  homage  which  a  virgin  heart  requires " 

The  hand  was  suddenly  withdrawn.  An  hysterical  laugh  es- 
caped from  the  lips  of  the  damsel,  as  she  replied — 

"  Ah  !  Senor,  you  are  all  too  serious.     You  sadden  me  muclu 


THE   MYSTERY.  Ill 

In  faith,  you  do  ;  and  I  must  sing  to  you  a  merry  song  ere  I  grow 
gloomy  as  the  night.  You  shall  hear  a  cheerful  ditty,  such  as  will 
make  you  laugh,  and  make  us  forget — forget — be  very  forgetful." 

She  would  have  risen,  and  motioned  to  the  guitar  lying  upon  a 
table  ;  but  he  held  her  firmly  by  the  hand.  He  was  bewildered 
by  her  conduct,  but  grew  more  and  more  firm  as  he  contempla- 
ted her.  He  had  seen  too  much  of  the  world,  and  of  human 
nature,  not  to  perceive  that  there  was  some  mystery  in  the  pro- 
ceeding. How  else  should  he  account  for  the  feverish  hurry  of 
her  manner,  at  such  a  moment,  so  utterly  unlike  her  conduct, 
during  all  other  periods  1 — how,  for  that  sobbing  sigh,  that  con- 
vulsive shudder,  and  those  forced  husky  accents  while  delivering 
words  ostensibly  meant  to  be  playful  and  sportive  ]  Vasccnselos 
was  now  not  to  be  deceived.  He  saw  that  the  gaiety  was  all 
assumed  only  ; — yet  wherefore  ?  He  was  more  ready  to  believe 
that  there  was  agony,  rather  than  merriment,  in  her  spirit  at  that 
moment.  Then  why  should  she  seek  to  sport  with  emotions,  so 
sacivd,  in  his  bosom,  when  she  had  always  before  shown  him  a 
respect  approaching  to  reverence  1  Vasconselos  felt  instinctively 
that  the  damsel  sought  under  the  guise  of  levity  only  to  conceal 
the  activity  and  presence  of  deep  and  painful  emotions.  He  felt 
and  saw  all  this ;  but  it  was  not  the  moment,  nor  was  his  the 
mood,  having  advanced  thus  far,  to  be  diverted  from  his  object. 
He  still  kept  his  grasp  upon  her  hand.  He  looked  steadily  into 
her  eyes.  They  answered  his  gaze  wildly.  She  trembled  all 
over.  He  spoke. 

"  Olivia — lady — I  cannot  now  be  baffled — I  must  speak,  and 
you  must  answer  me.  It  is  too  great  a  matter,  to  me — too 
vital  to  my  soul's  life,  to  suffer  me  to  be  silent  longer,  or  to 
leave  you  without  having  an  answer.  Yet  you  must  not  suspect 
me  of  unkindness.  I  see  that  you  suffer.  I  am  not  deceived  by 
this  show  of  merriment.  I  feel  that  there  is  a  secret  sorrow  which 
you  vainly  struggle  to  conceal " 

'•  No  !  no  !  no  secret — I — O  !  Senor,  release  me — let  me  go  !" 

And  she  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears,  and  buried  her  face  in 
her  hands  upon  the  arm  of  the  settee.  Vasconselos  bent  over, 


112  VASCOXSELOS. 

clasped  one  of  her  hands  in  his  own,  and  was  about  to  pass  his 
arm  about  her  waist,  when  a  sudden  footstep  was  heard  in  the 
room.  In  the  same  moment  Don  Balthazar  spoke, — but  a  sin- 
gle word, — but  it  sounded  in  the  ears  of  Olivia  like  the  voice 
of  the  Angel  Monkir  calling  up  the  dead. 

"  Olivia !" 

She  started  to  her  feet — looked  wildly  in  the  face  of  Vascon- 
selos,  who  had  withdrawn  a  pace,  and  was  observing  Don  Bal- 
thazar— and  then  tottered  towards  her  uncle.  Philip  darted  for- 
ward to  help  her,  when  she  recovered  herself,  bowed  slightly  to 
her  lover,  and  followed  her  uncle  from  the  room.  Scarcely  had 
she  got  into  the  passage  when  Don  Balthazar  said  to  her  quickly 
— and  she  now  observed  that  his  face  was  very  pale — 

"  When  did  you  see  Anita  last  ?"  „ 

"  Not  since  last  night.     Why  T' 

"  She  is  dead  !" 

"  Dead  !" 

"  Ay,  dead  !  of  old  age,  I  suppose.  Died  in  a  fit !  But  go 
to  her.  You  will  find  her  in  her  room.  Meanwhile,  I  will  ex- 
cuse you  to  these  gentlemen." 

He  disappeared.  Olivia  was  frozen  to  the  spot,  and  speech- 
less. Her  conscious  soul  was  full  of  nameless  terrors.  She 
too  readily  divined  the  cause  of  the  old  woman's  death,  and 
though  no  purpose  of  crime  was  in  her  mind  when  she  mixed 
with  the  contents  of  the  wine-flask  the  potion  from  the  phial,  she 
shuddered  with  such  a  horror  as  might  well  become  the  guilt  of 
the  murderess.  When  Don  Balthazar  returned  from  speaking 
with  Vasconselos  and  his  friend,  he  found  Olivia  where  he  had 
left  her,  rather  the  statue  of  a  fro/en  woman  than  a  living, 
breathing,  sufferer.  He  was  startled  by  her  evident  incapacity, 
and  putting  his  arms  about  her,  was  about  to  convey  her  to  her 
chamber ;  but  the  touch  of  his  fingers  recalled  her  energies.  She 
revolted  from  the  contact  with  as  great  a  shuddering  as  she  felt 
when  first  apprised  of  Anita's  death. 

"  Touch  me  not!"  she  exclaimed  solemnly — "  I  will  go  alone." 

She  did  go,  but  not  to   the   sight  of  the  dead  woman.     She 


A   NEW   CATASTROPHE.  113 

felt  that  she  could  not  endure  that  spectacle.  She  hurried  to  her 
own  chamber,  and  when  there,  threw  herself  half  fainting  upon 
the  couch.  The  new  catastrophe,  in  which  she  had  so  much  par- 
ticipated, added  to  the  gloomy  horrors  which  had  already  taken 
such  full  possession  of  her  soul. 


CHAPTEE  IX 

"  Mark  me  well  : 

I  boldly  tell  thee  that  I  bear  a  soul, 
Prepared  for  either  fortune.    If  thy  hand 
Be  stronger,  use  thy  power."  AGAJIEM.NOX. 

DON  BALTHAZAR  found  no  difficulty  in  sending  off  the  two  visit- 
ors. After  the  departure  of  Olivia,  they  had  but  little  motive 
to  remain.  Her  uncle  was  not  much  a  favorite  with  them.  lie 
was  known  to  be  a  hard  and  selfish  man,  who  was  believed,  and 
rightly,  to  have  no  sympathies  with  either.  Still,  he  was  a  man 
of  the  court,  and  could  put  on,  when  he  pleased,  the  manners  of 
a  preux  chevalier.  He  was  now  exceedingly  courteous  and  con- 
ciliatory, and  apologized  warmly  for  the  unavoidable  withdrawal 
of  his  niece,  and  for  those  cares,  of  his  own,  which  denied  him 
the  pleasure  of  giving  them  further  entertainment.  He  told 
them,  without  scruple,  the  cause  of  the  present  confusion  in  his 
household ;  and  made  quite  a  pretty  story  of  it. 

*'  His  venerable  housekeeper,  who  had  been  almost  a  mother 
to  Olivia,  watching  and  tending  her  youth  with  more  than  paren- 
tal solicitude,  was  suddenly  found  dead  in  her  seat.  Well  that 
morning,  to  all  appearance,  at  noon  she  had  passed  to  judgment ; 
and  this  without  alarming  the  family.  Olivia  was,  of  course, 
terribly  shocked  by  the  event.  She  had  retired  inconsolable  to 
her  chamber.  She  was  so  tenderly  attached  to  Anita,  and  Anita 
so  tenderly  attached  to  her  !  Her  affection  was  very  great, — 
great  indeed  ; — so  great,  that  he,  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro,  was 
exceedingly  anxious  for  her  health  ; — and  so  forth."  "  And  so, 
good  morning  to  you,  Senores." 

"  An  old  hag  !"  exclaimed  Nuno  de  Tobar  to  his  companion 
as  soon  as  they  had  got  fairly  beyond  the  premises, — "  one  ci 


ANITA'S  SUCCESSOR.  .  115 

the  ugliest  and  most  fiendish-looking  human  vultures  you  ever 
beheld.  As  for  her  attachment  to  Olivia,  or  Olivia's  to  her,  I  don't 
believe  a  word  of  it.  I  never  ssaw  any  proofs  of  it  myself,  and 
have  heard  many  things  which  lead  me  to  think  there  could  be 
no  attachment  between  them.  In  fact,  Leonora  tells  me  that 
Anita  was  no  more  than  a  spy  upon  the  poor  girl,  whose  steps 
were  watched  as  carefully  as  if  every  bush  concealed  a  lover, 
and  behind  every  tree  stood  an  armed  man  ready  to  snatch  her 
up  and  make  oft'  with  her.  Be  sure,  Don  Balthazar  has  no  de- 
sire that  she  should  pass  from  any  keeping  but  his  own.  lie 
enjoys  too  much  good  picking  from  the  estates  of  Olivia  to  give 
her  up  without  a  struggle.  There  is  a  strange  story  about  a 
silver  mine  which  he  has  somehow  wholly  appropriated  to  him- 
self; and  by  all  accounts,  he  may  well  dread  the  day  of  reckon- 
ing with  the  man  who  shall  become  her  husband.  For  this  rea- 
son he  keeps  her  immured  as  much  as  possible  ;  and  it  is  certain 
that  no  gentleman  can  obtain  access  to  his  dwelling  without  find- 
ing himself  watched.  You  must  continue,  Philip,  your  visits 
when  the  uncle  is  known  to  be  busy  elsewhere.  There  is  some- 
thing gained,  I  am  thinking,  by  the  death  of  this  old-  woman. 
It  is  a  special  providence  in  your  behalf.  See  that  you  make 
use  of  it." 

The  calculations  of  Nuno  de  Tobar,  in  respect  to  the  advan- 
tages gained  in  favor  of  the  larger  liberty  of  Olivia  by  the  death 
of  Anita,  were  somewhat  those  of  Olivia  herself;  for,  in  spite 
6f  the  shock  which  she  had  received  by  that  event,  and  the  nat- 
ural horrors  which  were  taught  her  by  her  own  secret  conscious- 
ness of  the  cause  of  it,  she  could  not  avoid  reflecting  upon  the 
probable  increase  of  her  own  securities  in  consequence.  They 
were  both  deceived.  That  very  night,  the  place  of  Anita  was 
filled  by  another  old  woman,  another  creature  of  Don  Balthazar, 
not  so  ugly,  perhaps,  or  so  old  as  her  predecessor,  but  equally 
hard  favored  and  unscrupulous.  Sylvia  was  a  mestizo  also, 
brought  from  one  of  the  haciendas  of  the.  estate,  a  few  miles  in 
the  country.  Olivia  had  seen  and  known  her  before.  The  sight 
of  this  woman,  in  her  new  situation,  left  her  little  hope  of  profit 


116  VASCONSELOS. 

by  the  death  of  Anita.  Sylvia  was  as  subtle  as  the  former,  and 
no  less  the  willing  tool  of  her  employer.  She  had  all  the  fierce 
malignity  of  mood  characteristic  of  the  hybrid  race  to  which 
she  belonged, — a  people  usually  of  fierce  passions,  sudden  im- 
pulses, capricious  impulse,  and  tenacious  of  the  sense  of  wrong 
and  injury  to  the  latest  moment  of  existence.  Don  Balthazar 
knew  his  creatures  well,  and  satisfied  of  this  fact,  Olivia,  for  the 
moment,  resigned  herself  to  despair  again. 

But  she  found  an  unexpected  ally,  where  she  least  looked  for 
one,  in  the  person  of  the  young  serving  girl,  Juana.  This  girl 
was  the  grand-daughter  of  Anita.  The  event  which  put  another 
in  the  place  of  her  grandmother,  had  also  its  injurious  conse- 
quences to  herself.  She  naturally  regarded  herself  as  the 
heiress  of  her  kinswoman ;  and  knowing  how  large  and  various 
had  been  the  accumulations  of  the  latter,  her  expectations  were 
correspondingly  large.  To  her  consternation,  the  successor  to 
the  place  of  Anita  at  once  usurped  possession  of  all  her  stores. 
Juana  was  driven  out  from  the  precincts  altogether,  and  com- 
pelled to  confine  herself  to  the  little  chamber  which  she  had  long 
occupied,  adjoining  that  of  Olivia.  Sylvia  had  assumed  the  en- 
tire control  of  the  household,  and. her  usurpations,  in  a  few  hours,' 
were  such  as  to  satisfy  Juana  that  her  expectations  from  the 
savings  of  her  grandmother  were  all  cut  off.  She  was  held  in 
no  more  favor  than  her  mistress,  and  soon  found  herself  under 
an  authority  which  was  disposed  to  submit  to  no  questioning. 
Sylvia  had  her  own  children  and  grand-children  to  provide  for. 
Juana  was  dreadfully  indignant.  She  did  not  dare  to  approach 
Don  Balthazar  with  her  griefs ;  but  she  condescended  to  confide 
to  Olivia.  In  her  passion  she  revealed  to  her  all  the  secrets  of 
their  mutual  prison-house,  all  at  least  that  she  knew,  and  thus, 
in  a  measure,  confirmed  the  unhappy  girl  in  the  conviction  which 
she  had  already  been  compelled  to  feel,  that  she  was  the  victim 
of  a  thousand  cruel  arts.  Juana  swore  to  have  her  revenges, 
and  better  to  secure  sympathy,  she  promised  Olivia  that  she 
should  have  redress  also.  What  were  her  plans  of  vengeance 
she  did  not  declare;  but  when  questioned  in  respect  to  her 


OLIVIA'S  ALLY.  117 

means  and  opportunities,  contented  herself  with  a  knowing  look, 
and  a  sagacious  shaking  of  the  head.  She  was  naturally  a  stu 
pid  wench,  but  possessed  that  sort  of  animal  cunning  which  is  so 
frequently  found  in  connection  with  a  base  and  feeble  intellect. 
For  the  present  nothing  could  be  extracted  from  her,  and  the 
business  of  the  household  went  on  without  disorder,  and  with 
no  apparent  interruption.  But,  as  we  shall  see  in  the  sequel, 
J  uana  was  busy  after  a  fashion  of  her  own. 

But  the  day,  thus  distinguished  by  the  startling  events  which 
we.  have  recorded,  was  not  at  an  end.  Olivia  sat  alone  in  the 
verandah.  The  evening  meal  had  been  set  before  her  by  Juana, 
but  had  been  carried  out  untasted.  She  had  no  appetite  just 
then  for  mortal  food.  Her  soul  was  still  agitated  to  its  depths, 
as  the  sea  that  heaves  up  tumultuously  with  all  its  waves,  though 
the  winds  which  have  swept  it  with  fearful  strife,  have  wholly 
passed  and  gone.  She  lay  reclined  upon  the  settee  of  wicker- 
work  where  we  beheld  her  during  her  morning  interview  with 
Vasconselos.  There  was  no  light  in  the  apartment;  none,  in 
fact,  was  necessary,  while  the  moon  glinting  through  groves  of 
orange  and  anana,  sufficed  for  the  desires  of  the  sad  and  contempla- 
tive spirit.  The  gay  gleams  flitted  over  the  floor  of  the  veran- 
dah, and  glided,  stealthily  and  faintly,  to  the  interior  of  the 
apartment,  otherwise  dimly  shaded  by  the  massive  foliage  which 
curtained  the  opening  in  front.  Here,  saddening  under  the 
sad  sv.  ret  ness  of  the  scene,  Olivia  brooded, — absorbed  in  ru- 
minating the  events  and  the  prospects  of  a  life,  which,  at  its  very 
budding,  seemed  already  shrouded  with  a  blight.  Her  heart 
sunk  within  her  as  she  thought;  all  was  dark  in  the  future;  all 
gloomy,  grievous,  and  reproachful  in  the  past.  At  length  she 
wept,  and  found  a  momentary  relief  in  her  tears.  The  big  drops 
forced  their  way  through  her  fingers, — tears  of  a  bitterness 
which  proved  superior  to  all  the  sweets  promised  by  an  affection 
win  h  was  only  too  precious  to  her  hopes. 

••  1L-  'oves  me!"  was  h  T  exclamation.  '  He  loves  me — he — 
tho  only  man  for  whom  this  heart  has  ever  felt  a  passion.  I 
cannot  mistake  his  silent  admiration.  I  cannot  doubt  the  broken 


118  VASCOXSELOS. 

meaning, — the  imperfect  sentiment — in  these  hesitating  words ; 
and  oh !  were  it  but  that  I  could  bear  his  glances  with  this 
dreadful  and  humiliating  secret  in  my  heart,  how  heavenly  were 
such  a  love.  But  how  to  enjoy  his  affections,  yet  betray  his 
confidence  !  How,  unworthy  as  I  am,  to  receive  his  embraces ! 
— How  place  my  head — how  bury  my  face  in  the  bosom  whose 
faith  I  have  deceived  !  Impossible  !  no,  Philip  de  Vasconselos, 
— precious  as  I  hold  thee  to  my  heart,  I  must  deny  myself  even 
more  than  I  deny  thee.  Thou  wilt  come,  but  it  must  be  for 
denial  only.  I  deny  thee  for  thy  better  fortune.  Thou  wilt  go 
hence  ;  go  upon  the  path  of  conquest  ;  and  ambition  will  rightly 
take  the  place  of  love !  Though  I  die  to  own  thee,  yet  I  never 
will  be  thine." 

She  had  spoken  audibly  this  soliloquy.  It  made  its  way  to 
other  ears,  though  her  own  were  scarcely  conscious  of  its  import. 
From  the  dense  masses  of  shade  at  the  Toot  of  the  verandah, 
came  a  voice  in  answer  : 

_  "  A  wise  resolution,  Olivia, — a  very  wise  resolution !  But  one 
thou  wilt  hardly  be  prepared  to  keep.  The  morning  sun  will 
bring  thee  fresh  hopes  and  fancies  ;  the  evening  will  bring  thee 
thy  lover  with  the  moonlight ;  and  thou  wilt  forget  the  vow  as 
if  it  were  written  in  wrater  !" 

At  the  first  sound  of  the  speaker's  voice,  Olivia  half  started 
from  the  settee  on  which  she  reclined.  But,  as  she  recognized 
the  accents  of  Don  Balthazar,  she  schooled  her  mood  to  indiffer- 
ence ;  drawing  a  long  deep  breath,  and  looking  a  mixed  scorn  and 
hatred,  which,  could  her  features  have  been  seen  at  the  moment, 
would  have  embodied  a  truthful  portrait  of  those  of  Medea, 
about  to  take  her  flight  for  Athens,  in  her  chariot  dyed  with  the 
gore  of  her  kindred.  Intense  and  bitter  was  the  momentary 
feeling  of  indignation  which  darkened  her  cheeks  with  red,  only 
to  subside,  in  the  next  instant,  into  a  more  than  mortal  paleness. 
The  uncle  advanced  from  the  thicket  and  ascended  to  the  veran- 
dah. He  approached  her',  flung  his  cap  upon  a  table,  and  seated 
himself  at  her  side.  She  recoiled  from  him,  retreating  to  the 
opposite  end  of  the  settee. 


THE   FOES. 

"  So  hostile  still  !"  said  he.  "  Well !  It  is  perhaps  reasonable 
enough,  though  it  comports  little  with  thy  resolution.  If  thou 
wilt  shake  off  the  knights  of  Portugal,  there  is  no  need  to  send 
me  with  them.  Nay,  for  the  very  reason  that  they  depart, 
should  I  be  suffered  to  remain.  Let  me  say,  Olivia,  that  1  iv- 
joice  in  thy  resolution.  It  is  wise — it  is  prudent.  It  would  never 
do  for  thee  to  wed  with  Philip  de  Vasconselos." 

"  And  wherefore  not  ?" 

"  Ah !  there  are  sufficient  reasons." 

"  None  which  concern  thee,  at  least.  If  I  have  so  resolved,  it 
is  for  a  reason  of  mine  own,  the  force  of  which  it  is  little  likely 
that  thou  shouldst  feel." 

"  Be  it  so  !  It  is  enough  that  thou  hast  resolved.  I  care  not 
to  know  the  motive  for  a  decision  which  is  yet  grateful  to  my 
mind.  Thou  hast  resolved  !  and  yet  I  somewhat  wonder  at  thcc, 
Olivia." 

"  Thou  know'st  me  not." 

"  Thou  wilt  scarce  keep  to  thy  resolution." 

"  Thou  know'st  me  not." 

"  Ha  !  did  I  not  see  thee  when  he  was  urging  thee,  as  still  the 
passionate  lover  knows  how  to  urge  his  suit  1  Did  1  not  see  thee 
tremble,  even  though  thou  recoiledst  from  his  supplications  ?  Did 
I  not  see  the  yielding  weakness  in  thy  lip  and  eye — hear  it  in  the 
tremors  of  thy  voice — know  it  in  what  I  know  of  the  passion  for 
him  which  stirs  in  all  thy  soul  ?  Thou  wouldst  have  yielded, 
at  one  moment — nay,  at  another  ! — I  am  curious,  Olivia.  Where- 
fore, at  Certain  moments,  when  his  hand  had  taken  thine  into  close 
keeping,  and  when  thy  whole  heart  was  melting  to  his  persuasive 
words — wherefore,  then,  didst  thou  break  away,  and  speak  of 
thy  guitar,  and  of  idle  minstrelsy  ?" 

"  Said  I  not, — thou  know'st  me  not  ?" 

"  But  wherefore  T 

"  Thou  didst  not  give  heed  to  the  words  he  uttered." 

"  Nay.  but  I  did.  They  wore  words  of  passion  and  devotion, 
such  as  well  befit  such  an  occasion.  They  were  well  chosen 
words  of  love,  I  trow ;  and  they  were  passing  sweet,  I  am  cer- 


120  VASCONSELOS. 

tain,  in  thy  oars.  Why  just  then  didst  thou  recoil  from  him,  even 
as  from  an  adder  thou  hadst  startled  in  thy  path. — evade  his  sup- 
plications,— changing  the  course  of  his  thought,  and  of  thy  own, 
and  seeking  to  divert  him  from  his  purpose,  only  that  he  might 
hear  how  deftly  thou  couldst  finger  thy  guitar  ?" 

"  And  think'st  thou  I  had  such  motive  ?" 

"What  else  f5 

"  1  tell  thee  again,  thou  know'st  me  not !  Heard'st  thou  the 
words  which  he  poured  into  mine  ears  ?" 

"  What  words  ]  I  noted  that  he  was  warming  to  thee  with  no 
doubtful  purpose.  Didst  thou  mistake  him  ]" 

"No!  I  knew — I  felt  his  purpose;  and  had  his  words  been 
otherwise  chosen,  I  had  probably  been  base  enough  to  listen,  and 
weak  enough  to  yield!  Ah!  uncle!  hadst  thou  not  utterly 
hardened  thy  soul  against  all  that  is  noble,  the  words  which  Don 
Philip  employed  had  smitten  upon  thy  senses  equally  with  mine, 
and  thou  hadst  felt  a  shudder  and  a  cold  shame  pass  over  thee, 
such  as  made  me,  perforce,  refuse  to  listen  to  the  devotion  of 
that  love  which  I  could  not  help  but  feel." 

"  What  words  are  these  1     They  spolte  for  his  love  only  !" 

"  More  !  more  !  There  were  words  in  his  speech  which  were 
as  poisoned  arrows  to  my  heart." 

"How!  what?" 

"'  For  my but  no  !  no  !  why  should  I  repeat  to  thee  1   Thou 

wilt  not  feel  as  I  do — thou  canst  not !  Enough,  that  I  strove  to 
avoid  the  professions  which  I  dared  not  trust  myself  to  answer. 
I  would  have  him  abandon  his  purpose,  and  seek  me  no  more. 
Let  him  find  one  who,  though  she  may  love  him  less  profoundly, 
will  be  more  deserving  of  his  affections.  It  is  because  I  so  much 
love  him,  that  I  will  deny  his  prayer.  I  dare  not  dishonor  a  heart 
which  is  so  precious  to  my  own." 

The  uncle  rose  from  his  seat,  and  stood  intently  gazing  for  a 
moment,  in  silence,  upon  the  excited  features  of  the  damsel.  She 
had  exhibited  to  his  mind  a  virtue  beyond  his  understanding.  He 
approached  and  laid  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder.  She  recoiled 
from  his  touch. 


WOMAN'S  FAILING.  121 

"  Verily,  Olivia,  thou  art  but  a  very  simple  child." 

"  Child  !  Oh  !  would  to  Heaven  I  were !  but  I  am  not.  Thou 
hast  forced  upon  me  too  dreary  an  experience  of  age — of  thy 
age — to  be  a  child — of  thy  sex,  to  be  properly  sensible  of  mine. 
Thou  hast  crushed  me  with  a  deadly  weight  of  knowledge  !  Thy 
tutorship  has  taken  from  me  all  the  sweet  ignorance  of  childhood. 
Alas  !  I  know  too  much  for  childhood  as  well  as  peace !  neither 
shall  I  ever  know  again  !" 

"  Thy  fit  is  again  coming  on  thee,  Olivia !" 

"  Fit !  I  tell  thee,  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro,  that,  though  thou 
hast  the  power  to  destroy  me,  and  every  hope  which  is  mine,  I 
will  not  suffer  thee  to  mock  me  with  thy  taunts !  Fit !  Verily, 
if  it  were  foaming  madness,  it  were  in  reason,  in  proper  accord- 
ance with  my  wrongs  and  sorrows.  Should  I  not  be  maddened  ! 
Should  I  not  rave  from  the  house-top  of  such  wrongs  as  might 
move  the  heavens  and  the  earth  to  shudder  ?" 

"  And  wherefore  rave  ?  Thou  seest  how  idle !  I  can  well  con- 
ceive how  much  thou  feel'st  the  loss  of  such  a  knight  as  Philip 
de  Vasconselos — for,  of  a  truth,  a  more  noble  cavalier  treads  not 
the  Isle  of  Cuba " 

"  No  more  !  no  more !" 

It  seemed  the  humor  of  Don  Balthazar  to  chafe  the  sore  spot 
in  her  soul,  and  he  continued : 

"  Well,  what  say'st  thou  to  Augustin  de  Sinolar  ?" 

"  Why  didst  thou  bring  him  hither  to-day  ?  He  made  suit  to 
thee  before.  Said  I  not  then,  that  I  scorn  this  man  De  Sinolar  ?" 

"  So  ! — thou  rejectest  De  Sinolar  because  thou  scorn'st  him,  and 
Vasconselos  because  thou  lovest  him  ?  This,  my  Olivia,  is  but 
child's  play.  Let  me  show  thee  thy  folly.  Thou  hast  a  secret. 
It  is  my  secret  as  well  as  thine,  but  I  have  every  confidence  that 
thou  wilt  keep  it  faithfully.  Now,  to  have  a  secret,  such  as  she 
never  likes  to  reveal,  is  just  the  failing  of  every  woman  since  the 
days  of  Eve.  Just  such  a  secret  as  thine,  troubles  every  damsel 
fair  as  thou  art !" 

"  Impossible !" 

"  True,  my  child  !  True  !  But  should  it  make  her  miserable  ] 
6 


122  VASCONSELOS. 

She  has  eaten  certain  fruits  which  are  forbidden,  but  she  has  sense 
enough  to  wipe  her  mouth  after  eating,  and  who  is  .the  wiser? 
Now,  this  act  of  wiping  the  mouth  is  very  simple.  Shalt  thou 
then  deny  thyself  the  privilege  of  eating  again  when  it  pleases 
thee ?  Shalt  thou  deny  thyself,  because  of  a  past  error — if  it 
pleases  thee  so  to  call  it — to  partake  of  even  more  precious  fruits, 
which  thou  dost  really  desire?  Wherefore?  What  wisdom  in 
it  ?  No !  no !  I  love  thee,  Olivia,  and  will  teach  thee  better 
policy.  I  have  resolved  for  thee,  and  if  thou  ever  wed'st,  thou 
shalt  wed  with  De  Sinolar." 

"  Name  not  that  thing,  De  Sinolar,  to  me." 

"  True,  he  is  a  thing,  that  is  certain  ; — and  so  far  acceptable.  I 
rather  prefer  him  on  that  account." 

"  That  thou  may'st  the  better  use  him  !  For  that  thou  may'st 
make  a  dog  of  him  without  endowing  him  with  a  dog's  courage." 

"  Perhaps  !  perhaps  !" 

"  But  I  shall  never  wed.    So  forbear  this  cruel  talk,  I  pray  thee." 

"  I  cannot  trust  thy  resolution,  Olivia.  I  fear  that  when  Philip 
de  Vasconselos  next  approaches  thee  with  the  words  of  soliciting, 
thou  wilt  answer  him  with  the  words  of  consent." 

"No!  no!  no!" 

"  Yet,  verily,  thou  lovest  that  man  ! " 

"  I  deny  it  not !  It  is  my  boast,  when  spoken  to  thy  ears.  It 
•were  my  pride,  were  I  other  than  I  am,  to  make  declaration  of  my 
love  abroad  to  all  mankind.  I  love  him  as  man  never  was  loved 
before ;  and  it  is,  as  I  have  said  to  thee  already,  it  is  even  because  I 
so  much  love,  that  I  will  not  marry  him.  I  will  not  do  him  such 
grievous  wrong  !  Oh !  uncle,  thou  hast  destroyed  my  hope  and 
happiness  forever.  Thou  hast  abused  the  trust  of  my  dear  fa- 
ther— thou  the  shepherd,  that  hast  thyself  been  the  wolf  to  de- 
stroy the  lamb." 

A  paroxysm  of  tears  followed  this  speech.  The  uncle  smiled 
contemptuously.  He  knew  that  the  more  violent  passion  was 
usually  weakened  in  the  access  of  tears.  She  looked  suddenly  up 
and  caught  the  expression ;  and  a  passionate  pride  rose  up  in  her 
sou)  to  her  relief. 


THE   WOLF   AT   BAY.  123 

"  Thou  mock'st,  I  see !  Now,  I  say  to  thee,  Don  Balthazar  de 
Alvaro!  thou  hadst  better  stay  thy  tortures.  Thou  know'st  me 
not,  or  the  fires  which  prey  upon  my  soul  like  those  of  a  volcano. 
Better  thou  shouldst,  without  weapon  or  preparation,  arouse  the 
she-wolf  in  the  cavern  with  her  young,  than  vex  me  farther  with 
thy  taunts.  Beware !  I  have  been  weak,  and  thou  hast  taken  me 
at  'vantage.  But  if  I  am  weak,  I  am  blind  no  longer  ;  and  if  not 
strong  to  bear,  I  am,  at  least,  tempered  to  resist  and  to  resent. 
The  very  passions  thou  hast  goaded  into  existence  will  be  my 
avengers  in  the  end.  I  counsel  thee  give  heed  to  what  I  say.  Be- 
ware !  I  am  capable  of  things  even  more  evil  than  thou  think'st 
for,  and  there  is  a  limit  beyond  which  it  were  well  for  thee  not  to 
go.  Once  more  I  warn  thee.  I  have  had  such  bitter  thoughts 
and  feelings  towards  thee,  that  didst  thou  press  me  much  further, 
I  feel  as  if  I  could  slay  thee  with  a  dagger,  even  as  I  would  strike 
the  serpent  that  crept  to  my  bosom  while  I  slept." 

She  had  risen  while  she  spoke,  and  stood  before  him,  wild  and 
passionate,  with  flashing  dark  eye,  and  white  arm  waving.  He 
surveyed  her  with  a  stern  and  frowning  brow,  but  somewhat 
coldly — his  lips  compressed,  as  if  with  a  feeling  of  pride  and 
power, — and  his  eye  looking  into  hers  with  the  bright  fixedness 
which  that  of  the  serpent  is  said  to  show  when  fascinating  the 
bird  from  the  tree.  There  was  a  pause ;  the  parties  still  regarding 
each  other.  She,  standing,  looking  on  him  with  a  raised  spirit,  and 
wild,  fiery  glance;  he,  sitting,  returning  the  gaze  steadfastly — 
coolly  if  not  calmly,  and  apparently  reserving  himself  for  the 
proper  moment.  At  length,  he  spoke,  very  deliberately,  as  if 
measuring  every  syllable. 

"  I  think  I  do  know  thee,  Olivia  de  Alvaro,  and  something 
know  of  what  thou  art  capable  in  thy  passion.  Have  I  not,  of 
late,  likened  thee  to  thy  Biscayan  mother  ?  and  her  I  knew  thor- 
oughly. Let  me  convince  thee  that  I  do  not  estimate  too  hum- 
bly thy  powers  of  evil.  Sit  down  once  more  while  I  question 
thee." 

There  was  something  so  calm  and  quiet  in  the  authority  of  his 
voice  and  words,  that,  from  habit  merely,  the  damsel  submitted 


124  VASCONSELOS. 

and  resumed  her  seat.  Steadily  looking  into  her  face,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  speak  again,  as  deliberately  as  before. 

"  Didst  thou  know,  Olivia,  that  the  poor  old  woman,  Anita, 
was  poisoned  ?  She  died  from  no  old  age,  but  from  a  deadly 
liquor  which  she  was  made  to  drink." 

The  listener  grew  white  as  death.  Her  knees  shook  beneath 
her.  Her  tongue  was  frozen. 

"  Ay,  Olivia,  some  loving  hand  drenched  her  posset  with  a  too 
bountiful  allowance  !  Dost  thou  know  this  kerchief,  Olivia  ?" 

He  showed  it.     It  was  her  own.     She  was  silent. 

"  This  kerchief  did  I  find  where  the  person  was  concealed  who 
drugged  the  old  woman's  draught." 

He  paused,  as  if  awaiting  the  answer.     But  none  was  spoken. 

"  Thou  hast  nothing  to  say.  Well !  It  is  enough.  Not  to 
speak  is  sufficiently  to  answer  at  such  a  moment.  But,  let  me 
say  to  thee  farther,  my  child,  it  is  known  to  me  that  thou  thyself 
wast  the  last  in  the  chamber  of  Anita  last  night !  Shouldst  thou 
think,  now,  that  I  am  ignorant  of  what  thou  art  capable  ?  It  was 
thy  hand,  Olivia  de  Alvaro,  that  drugged  the  old  woman's 
draught  with  death." 

"  And  if  it  were,  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro,"  exclaimed  Olivia, 
rising,  and  resuming  all  her  strength  and  courage,  as  she  beheld 
the  air  and  listened  to  the  tone  of  superiority  which  he  employ- 
ed— "and  if  it  were  my  hand,  then  were  my  hand  rightly  em- 
ployed in  punishing  one  who  has  been  a  murderess  to  me.  And 
had  my  hand  served  thee  with  the  same  fatal  drug,  then  were  I 
also  justified  in  the  sight  of  man  and  heaven.  Go  to,  Senor,  thou 
shalt  not  alarm  or  confound  me.  I  am  prepared,  when  thou  art 
so  pleased,  to  listen  to  thee  as  thou  reportest  all  thy  story  to  the 
world.  I  fear  thee  not — I  know  not  now  that  I  fear  anything  in 
life.  Thou  hast  brought  me  to  this  desperation.  Yet  know,  that 
when  I  mixed  the  drug  with  the  draught  of  Anita,  I  knew  it  not 
as  a  deadly  poison.  I  knew  it  only,  and  believed  it  to  be  no 
more  than  a  stupefying  drug,  such  as  wrap  the  senses  in  an  un- 
natural and  temporary  slumber.  As  thou  knowest  so  much,  it 
is  not  unlikely  that  thou  knowest,  also,  that  I  beheld  thee  and 


A  WARNING.  125 

Anita  in  secret  conference  in  regard  to  my  fate,  on  the  night 
when  that  drug  was  mixed  with  her  wine  ?  I  saw  her,  ay,  and 
thee,  as  the  fatal  phial  was  held  between  ye  to  the  light,  and  ye 
resolved  together  that  my  potion  was  to  be  increased.  Was  it 
unreasonable  if  I  thought  the  goodly  medicine  which  ye  designed 
for  me,  in  your  charity,  it  was  but  fitting  that  ye  also  should 
partake?  I  wished  to  commend  ye  also  to  such  blessed  visions 
and  dreams,  as  ye  nightly  and  daily  prepared  for  me.  I  would 
have  ye  too  enjoy  that  insensible  respose,  which  ye  decreed  be- 
tween ye  should  lighten  my  cares,  and  keep  me  from  the  feeling 
of  rny  cruel  wrongs;  and  had  it  been  possible,  Don  Balthazar, 
that  I  could  have  mingled  the  drug  with  thy  own  wine-cup,  this 
hand  should  fearlessly  have  done  it ; — not,  I  affirm,  as  meaning 
that  it  should  be  fatal  to  thy  life,  but  as  forcing  you  to  such  trial 
of  those  sufferings  of  mine  which  have  never  yet  compelled  your 
pity  and  forbearance !  Now,  that  you  know  of  what  I  am  capa- 
ble, I  again  bid  ye  beware !  You  know  the  terms  between  us. 
I  loathe  you,  and  I  fear  you;  yet  so  little  do  I  fear  the  world  of 
man,  that,  were  it  not  for  one  who  lives  among  ye,  I  should  com- 
mission you  freely  to  declare  aloud  all  that  you  have  made  me 
and  all  that  I  am !  Nay,  the  time  may  come,  when,  heedless  of 
the  shame  which  shall  follow  from  this  speech,  I  myself  shall  go 
out  into  the  highways  of  the  city,  and  speak  aloud  the  truth  my- 
self!" 

Don  Balthazar  was  silenced.  For  the  moment,  he  had  no 
refuge.  He  rose  and  left  the  verandah,  and  passed  into  the  groves 
around  it ;  while  Olivia,  thoroughly  exhausted,  but  no  longer 
tremulous  or  fearful,  rose  with  a  firm  frame  and  spirit,  and 
moved  quietly  to  her  chamber. 


CHAPTER    X. 

"  Cymb.  The  time  is  troublesome  : 

We'll  slip  you  for  a  season  ;  but  our  jealousy 

Does  yet  depend. "  SHAKESPEARE. 

PHILIP  DE  VASCONSELOS  did  not,  as  was  anticipated  by  Don  Bal- 
thazar, and  Wirmly  counselled  by  Nuno  de  Tobar,  return  imme- 
diately to  the  attempt  upon  the  affections  of  Olivia  de  Alvaro. 
It  would  have  been  quite  enough  to  preclude  his  visit  for  that  day 
and  the  next,  at  least,  that  there  had  been  a  death  in  the  family  j 
an  event,  however,  to  which  his  more  reckless  friend  attached  no 
sort  of  importance.  But  there  was  another  reason  for  delay  and 
hesitation  :  Philip  had  no  such  confidence  in  his  own  position, 
no  such  faith  in  his  own  powers,  no  such  conviction  of  the  favor- 
able regards  of  the  lady,  as  was  asserted  by  Nuno.  He  was,  on 
the  contrary,  troubled  with  many  misgivings,  which  grew  in  dif- 
ficulty the  more  he  examined.  The  very  fact  that  he  really  and 
earnestly  loved,  made  him  tremble  at  the  thought  of  precipitating 
his  fate  ;  and  the  true  lover  is  almost  always  prepared  to  think 
humbly  of  his  own  claims,  in  view  of  that  supposed  perfection  which 
he  recognizes  in  the  lady  of  his  love.  Besides,  with  the  natural 
delicacy  of  a  proud  and  honorable  mind,  conscious  of  his  own 
poverty,  he  felt  the  awkwardness  of  a  suit  to  one  who  was  in  the 
possession  of  great  riches.  He  felt  hf  w  easy  it  was  to  suspect 
the  motives  of  such  a  suitor,  and  dreaded  lest  such  a  suspicion 
should  taint  the  mind  of  the  lady  herself.  Not  that  he  was  dis- 
posed to  forego  his  suit  because  of  this,  or  any  other  considera- 
tion. On  the  contrary,  he  was  resolved  to  bring  it  to  the  trial, 
and  know  the  worst  as  soon  as  he  could  think  it  proper  to  do  so. 
But  all  his  conclusions  counselled  him  to  delay.  Nor  must  we 
allow  it  to  be  supposed  that  he  was  without  his  encouragements. 

126 


LOVER'S  HOPES.  127 

lie  persuaded  himself  that-  there  was  much  in  what  had  taken 
place  between  himself  and  Olivia  in  that  last  interview,  to  show 
that  she  was  very  far  from  insensible  to  his  pretensions.  It  is 
true  that  there  were  things  in  her  carriage — some  curious  caprices 
of  mood  and  manner,  which  he  found  it  not  easy  altogether 
to  comprehend.  But  there  was  still  enough  to  please  a  lov- 
er; and  to  persuade  one,  even  less  bold  and  ardent  than  our 
hero,  to  continue  a  pursuit  in  which  he  had  certainly  suffered  no 
repulse.  She  had  evaded  his  application,  but  she  had  shown  a 
peculiar  sensibility  at  his  approach.  She  had  trifled  somewhat 
when  he  was  seriously  earnest,  but  what  was  the  meaning  of  her 
tremors  when  her  fair  white  hand  lingered  within  his  grasp?  and 
had  she  not  encouraged  his  return  ? — and  had  she  not  declared  an 
interest  in  his  presence  in  Cuba,  in  language  too  impressive  to  be 
wholly  without  that  desirable  signification  which  the  lover  seeks? 
Vasconselos  was  very  far  from  being  discouraged — nay,  without 
heeding  the  confident  assurance  of  Nuno  de  Tobar,  he  felt  a  new 
hope  springing  within  his  bosom  at  every  moment  of  increased 
reflection ;  and,  ere  the  day  was  well  over,  he  had  resolved  to 
bring  his  doubts  to  an  issue,  at  least,  before  the  departure  of  the 
expedition.  It  was  his  farther  resolution,  if  successful  in  his 
suit,  to  abandon  the  adventure  with  De  Soto.  For  that  matter, 
he  had  partly  determined  thus,  whatever  might  be  the  result  of  his 
courtship.  This  conclusion  was  reached  that  very  night,  and 
the  next  morning,  when  he  was  visited  by  Tobar,  he  unhesitat- 
ingly declared  it,  to  the  great  consternation  of  that  young  gallant. 
The  latter  enabled  him  to  do  so,  without  effort,  by  rallying  him 
on  the  score  of  his  amour. 

"  Where  were  you  last  night,  Philip  ?  You  promised  to  be 
with  us,  and  broke  faith.  Truth  to  say,  we  had  the  merriest 
night  of  it  in  the  tent  of  Juan  de  Anasco.  Better  flasks  of  Xeres 
were  never  opened  to  Don  Ferdinand.  All  cried  aloud  against 
you,  and  cursed  your  drowsy  courtship,  which  seems  to  be  noto- 
rious throughout  the  Island.  Now,  my  good  fellow,  if  you  must 
be  in  love,  there  is  no  good  reason  why  you  should  be  out  of  the 


128  VASCONSELOS. 

world.     Every  body  asks  for  you — they  all  look  for  you  in  vain. 
You  are  lost  to  all  good  fellowship." 

"  You  are  likely  to  lose  me  still  more  completely  than  you 
do  now,  Nuno.     Some  day  you  will  fail  to  see  me  altogether.    I 
mean,  indeed,  to  separate  myself  wholly  from   such  a  band  of 
vicious  profligates,  who  have  no  faith  in  anything  more  lovely 
than  a  pearl  oyster,  and  yield  their  hearts  to  nothing  less  persua- 
sive than  a  gold  mine.     What  should  I  do  with  such  people ; — I 
who  still  believe  in  love  and  beauty,  and  have  a  heart  still  open  1 
to  the  pleadings  of  a  woman  ]     That  I  do  love  is  sufficient  reason   ', 
why  I  should  leave  such  companions.     From  this  day  I  am  going  ? 
to  quit  you  all.     I  propose  even  to  forego  the  expedition  to  Flor- 
ida.    It  needs  me  not ;  and  there  are  good  reasons  wherefore  I  | 
should  abandon  it." 

"  Now  the  blessed  saints  forefend,  that  you  should  speak  seri-  . 
ously  this  resolution,  my  friend.  Why,  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  1 
this  is  mere  madness.  What  reasons  can  you  have  1  That  you  I 
love  and  would  marry,  and  may  marry  Olivia  de  Alvaro,  is  not  \4 
sufficient  cause,  I  trow,  since  the  one  stands  not  in  the  way  of  the  fj 
other,  if  there  be  any  settled  purpose  in  your  mind  to  go." 

"  Aye,  but  there  is  none." 

"  How  !  I  thought  your  going  with  the  expedition  was  quite  a 
eettled  matter.  I  know  that  the  Adelantado  counts  confidently  i 
upon  your  going,  and  holds  it  of  large  importance  to  the  interest  of  1 
the  expedition  that  you  should  go :  for  you  are  the  only  person  of  | 
all  the  party  who  knows  the  tongue  of  the  Floridian,  and  the  pas-  a 
sages  to  his  country." 

"  I  did,  in  some  degree,  prepare  and  consent  to  depart  with 
the  Adelantado,  but  if  he  counts  upon  my  going  and  values  my 
performance,  he  hath  taken  but  a  strange  course  for  showing  me 
the  estimate  he  hath  of  my  services." 

"Truth,  he  hath  neglected  you  somewhat." 

"  But  this  availeth  little,  and  I  have  no  regrets  and  no  com- 
plaints. Let  it  suffice  for  you,  Nuno,  that,  for  the  time,  the  pas- 
sion for  warlike  adventure  hath  gone  utterly  out  of  my  heart.  I 


PHILIP'S  DECISION.  129 

look  with  discomfort  at  all  warlike  panoply — I  turn  away  from 
lance  and  sword  with  feeling  of  discomfort,  and  my  shield  glares 
at  me  with  unpleasant  brightness  from  the  wall.  Love  hath  sub- 
dued me  to  simpler  and  sweeter  desires.  I  dream  now  of  long 
floating  hair  and  dewy  eyes,  and  a  sweet  song  and  sweeter  sigh 
in  the  shade  of  lemon  groves  in  the  star-light." 

"Shame  on  thee,  Vasconselos,  that  thou  shouldst  make  such 
confession  !  I  will  report  thee  for  a  haggard  through  the  army. 
I  too  have  had  my  passions  and  my  loves,  as  thou  knowest,  and 
I  could,  on  occasion,  play  me  a  merry  turn  of  sadness  upon  the 
guitar  beneath  my  lady's  lattice,  even  now;  but  that  she  should 
wean  me  from  my  love  of  shield  and  spear,  were  impossible !  I 
must  not  believe  thee." 

"  Thou  shalt !  thou  wilt !  I  am  the  very  thing  that  I  tell  thee, 
and  care  nothing  for  all  the  gold  and  treasure  of  the  Flori.dian." 

"  It  will  greatly  anger  the  adelantado  when  he  hears  of  thy 
decision." 

"  Nay,  I  think  he  is  somewhat  prepared  for  it.  He  hath 
treated  me  with  neglect  from  the  beginning,  in  all  substantial 
things,  and  he  now  shows  me  a  cold  courtesy,  which  argues  hos- 
tility. This,  of  itself,  were  enough  to  move  me  to  abandon  his 
banner.  But  thou  also  knowest  how  much  are  we  Portuguese 
the  dislike  of  thy  common  soldiers.  My  brother,  Andres,  who 
leads  a  troop  of  our  people,  and  a  goodly  one,  hath  a  certain 
measure  of  independence.  But  I,  who  am  only  a  single  horse 
and  lance,  I  have  no  power,  and  lacking  power,  have  no  security. 
I  could  only  go  as  a  simple  volunteer,  the  aid  to  a  superior  who 
hath  shown  me  aversion.  Seest  thou  not  how  little  motive  is 
there  left  me  for  this  adventure1?  Even  the  page  who  helped 
me  buckle  on  my  armor  is  withdrawn  from  me,  since  he  waits  also 
on  my  brother,  and  is  his  paid  follower ;  and  this  reminds  me, 
Nuno,  that  I  am  seeking  to  buy  me  a  well-made  blackamoor ; — 
a  boy  who  shall  bring  me  water,  unlace  my  helmet,  and  put  on 
my  spurs ;  a  meek  and  docile  urchin,  who  shall  be  quick  as  will- 
ing, and  whom,  by  kindness,  I  can  make  faithful.  Wilt  thou 
make  it  known  abroad  that  the  Portuguese  knight,  Philip  de  Vas- 
6* 


130  VASCONSELOS. 

conseles.  is  willing  to  pay  a  goodly  sum  in  Castellanos  for  this 
Moorish  urchin  ]" 

"  It  shall  be  done,  Philip ;  but  thou  chafest  me.  I  cannot  lose 
thee  from  this  expedition." 

"  It  may  be  that  the  Lady  Olivia  will  reject  my  hand.  If  it  be 
so " 

"  Nay,  I  know  her  better.  She  will  not  reject  thee.  Leonora 
vows  to  me  that  her  heart  is  full  of  thee  only." 

"  Hath  she  said  this  to  thy  wife  ?" 

"  No  !  not  in  words ;  but  she  hath  shown  it  in  a  thousand  in- 
stances. My  wife  is  a  laugher,  but  she  hath  an  eye.  She  sees, 
and  I,  too,  see,  Philip,  and  we  have  no  doubts.  It  is  your  own 
modesty  alone  that  seeks  for  them,  and  builds  them  up  into  a 
tower !  I  can  tell  you  what  the  answer  of  the  lady  will  be,  and 
upon  this  you  may  count  with  certainty.  But  you  w411  scarcely 
wed  on  the  instant,  even  when  she  accepts  thee.  Some  time 
will  pass,  and  why  not  yield  this  to  a  campaign  in  Florida? 
How  much  better  to  bring  home  a  dowry  for  your  bride,  in  the 
pearl  and  gold  of  the  Apalachian  1  Nay,  hath  she  not  a  noble 
hacienda,  one  of  the  finest  in  all  the  island,  at-Matelos,  which 
needs  nothing  but  an  adequate  supply  of  slaves,  to  make  it  an 
empire  1  A  single  season  in  Apalachia  will  give  thee  any  num- 
ber." 

"  Nay,  let  her  consent  to  my  love,  Nuno,  and  there  shall  be 
no  delay.  We  shall  instantly  wed.  I  like  not  these  long  gaps 
between  promise  and  performance.  They  make  the  heart  sick 
and  the  soul  weary.  Unless  there  be  good  reason,  there  shall  be 
no  delay.  She  shall  be  mine  as  soon  after  she  hath  said  the 
consenting  word  as  the  time  will  suffer  for  the  coming  of  the 
priest  and  the  preparation  of  the  altar." 

"  And  Don  Balthazar !  thinkest  thou  he  is  the  person  to  suffer 
thee  so  easily  to  take  possession  ?  I  look  for  trouble  from  that 
quarter." 

"  Trouble !  I  tell  thee,  Nuno,  there  is  something  in  the  aspect 
of  that  man  which  so  offends  my  nature,  that  it  will  go  hard  with 
me  if  I  do  not  take  him  by  the  beard  on  the  first  occasion.  I 


A  CHANGE   OF  VIEW.  131 

have  somehow,  among  men,  an  infallible  instinct  for  knowing 
an  enemy,  even  as  most  men  have  the  instinct  for  knowing  when 
there  is  venom  in  reptile  and  insect.  My  soul  seems  to  lift  my 
heel,  as  I  behold  him,  with  the  feeling  that  I  ought  to  crush." 

"•  Yet  beware !  He  is  one  who  hath  power  and  policy.  He 
hath  courage,  too,  and  is  known  for  a  man  of  prowess  in  arms. 
You  know  that  the  adelantado  hath  made  him  Captain-General 
of  the  Fleet." 

"  Ha !  then  he  departs  with  the  expedition  ?  I  had  thought 
this  doubtful." 

"  The  appointment  hath  secured  him,  and  some  thousands  of 
Castellanos  besides,  drawn,  I  suspect,  from  the  estates  of  the  fair 
Olivia." 

"Well,  let  him  depart.  It  is  even  more  important,  if  he 
goes,  that  I  should  remain.  Let  Olivia  but  yield  me  her  favor, 
and  I  care  not  who  departs.  Nothing  then  should  persuade  me 
to  this  wild  enterprise." 

"  Ah !  Philip,  thou  didst  not  hold  it  so  wild  ere  thou  sawest 
the  fair  niece  of  Don  Balthazar." 

"  I  was  but  a  wiH  person  in  that  day  myself." 

"And  why  shouldst  thou  now  deem  it  so  wild  an  enterprise? 
Thou  wert  a  companion  with  Cabeza  de  Va^a,  and  shared  his 
spoils,  and  held  with  him  the  opinion  that  the  mountains  of  Apa- 
lachia  contained  treasures  of  gold  and  silver  even  greater  than 
those  of  Peru  and  Tenochtitlan." 

"  And  think  not  otherwise  now.  But  to  me  such  treasures 
have  grown  valueless  in  comparison  with  others  yet  more  pre- 
cious. Thou  shalt  enjoy  my  share  of  them,  Nuno.  May  they 
make  thee  rich  and  leave  thee  happy.  But,  for  my  happiness, 
I  need  not  now  to  go  on  shipboard.  I  need  not  carry  lance 
again  among  the  savages.  My  ears  shall  not  prick  at  the  sum- 
mons of  the  trumpet,  and  I  shall  soon  learn  to  forget  in  the  quiet 
shadows  of  my  fig-tree,  that  I  ever  had  communion  with  wild  and 
profligate  youth  like  thyself." 

"Now  am  I  half  persuaded  to  implore  the  Saints  that  they 
move  against  thee,  and  forbid  this  damsel  to  give  hearing  to  thy 


132  VASCONSELOS. 

praj  er.  Thy  passion  for  her  bids  fair  to  break  the  head  from  one 
of  the  best  lances  of  Castile  !  What  shall  we  do  without  thee  in 
Florida — thou  who  know'st  all  about  the  country,  and  hast  such 
sufficient  knowledge  of  the  infernal  dialect  of  these  savages  of  Apa- 
lachia?  When  this  resolution  of  thine  shall  reach  the  ears  of  the 
Adelantado,  he  will  surely  madden.  He  will  carry  thee,  perforce, 
Philip." 

"  Be  thine  the  tongue,  Nuno,  to  make  him  the  report,  that  the 
first  overflow  of  his  anger  will  fall  upon  other  heads  than  mine." 

"  Upon  mine,  thou  meanest  1  Yet  thou  scarcely  deservest  this 
friendship  from  the  comrade  whom  thou  abandon' st  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  field  !  But  thou  wilt  decide  otherwise,  I  trust ;  and 
prove  thyself  true  to  thy  vocation,  if  not  to  the  sex.  He  who 
keeps  faith  with  his  comrade,  need  not  concern  himself  in  regard 
to  pledges  made  to  woman." 

"  Out  upon  thee  for  a  heretic !  But  that  I  know  thee  to  speak 
commonly  a  philosophy  such  as  thou  canst  invent,  and  not  such 
as  thou  believest,  I  should  lift  lance  against  thee,  though  I  never 
strove  in  tilt  or  combat  again  !  But  get  thee  hence,  and  leave  me  to 
my  meditations.  Thou,  meanwhile,  may'st  employ  thyself,  and 
amuse  the  island,  by  telling  aloud  this  purpose  of  mine  to  aban- 
don the  expedition." 

"  But  thou  wilt  take  part  in  the  tournament ]" 

"  Ay,  as  a  point  of  honor  it  is  needful.  We  Portuguese  have 
been  too  much  held  in  disesteem  by  your  proud  Spaniards,  and  I 
am  resolved  to  lower  some  of  the  haughty  crests,  which  have 
abused  the  courtesy  of  knighthood.  It  will  be,  perchance,  a  solemn 
service,  closing  my  career  in  chivalry.  I  will  then  dedicate  my 
spear  to  the  Gods  of  the  Harvest — and  set  up  an  altar  to  peace, 
where  hitherto  I  have  bowed  only  to  that  of  war !" 

"  A  Dios .'"  exclaimed  the  young  knight  at  parting.  "  I  go  sfc'Uy, 
Philip,  to  make  evil  report  of  thee  to  all  good  companions  !  ' 

"  A  Dios !"  replied  the  Portuguese — "  I  wish  thee  no  worsi;  evil 
than  that,  in  time,  thou  shalt  come  to  be  full  believer  in  thy  own 
report." 

Nuno  de  Totar  needed  no  exhortations  on  the  part  of  Philip 


N  UNO'S  PLANS.  133 

de  Vasconselos,  to  spread  abroad  the  news  of  his  resolution  to 
abandon  the  expedition.  He  was  naturally  given  to  talk  freely 
all  that  he  knew.  But,  in  publishing  the  matter,  he  aimed  really 
so  to  cause  the  expression  of  regret  among  the  people,  which  he 
knew  would  be  very  general,  as  to  move  the  Adelantado  to  re- 
view his  conduct  towards  the  Portuguese  knights,  and  to  repair  the 
evils  which  had  followed  his  neglect.  It  was  the  notion  of  Nuno, 
and  it  was  probably  not  without  justice,  that  a  little  more  favor 
shown  to  these  adventurers  would  have  secured  their  attachments, 
and  confirmed  them  in  their  desire  for  the  adventure.  It  was  not 
too  late,  he  fancied,  to  win  Philip  back  to  the  enterprise,  and  he 
resolved  freely  to  declare  himself,  to  this  effect,  to  the  ears  of  the 
Adelantado.  The  command  of  a  score  or  two  of  lances,  and  an 
honorable  appointment,  would,  he  persuaded  himself,  so  influence 
Philip  de  Vasconselos,  that,  even  if  he  married  Olivia,  he  would 
still  accompany  or  follow  the  expedition.  Was  he  not  about  to 
abandon  his  own  wife,  who  was  both  young  and  beautiful ;  and 
did  not  the  Adelantado  himself  do  likewise,  in  respect  to  a  woman 
no  less  beautiful  than  noble  1  He  could  see  no  reason  why  the 
Portuguese  should  exhibit  a  more  feminine  tenderness  and  affec- 
tion than  either. 

In  these  views  and  this  policy  he  seconded  the  desires  and  opin- 
ion of  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro.  This  person  soon  got  tidings 
of  the  avowed  determination  of  the  knight  of  Portugal.  Nuno 
de  Tobar  had  given  large  currency  to  the  report  in  a  couple  of 
hours ;  but  Philip,  who  was  not  without  his  policy,  and  whose  de- 
sire was  to  circulate  his  decision,  set  other  agents  to  work  in  its 
dissemination.  Scarcely  had  Nuno  de  Tobar  disappeared  when 
another  visitor  had  sought  his  lodgings,  and  he  was  shortly  suc- 
ceeded by  a  third.  To  all  of  these  our  knight  was  equally  commu- 
nicative, "and  the  news  was  soon  dispersed,  as  upon  the  wings  of 
the  wind,  all  over  the  city.  Don  Balthazar  was  one  of  the  first 
persons  whom  it  reached. 

"  'Tis  as  I  feared  !"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "This  knight  is  hope- 
ful of  success.  He  is  not  willing  to  forego  his  chances.  He  grows 
confident :  he  will  come  again.  He  will  propose.  I  cannot  hide 


134  VASCONSELOS. 

her  from  him .  I  cannot  deny  him  entrance.  I  dare  not  hurry  her 
off  to  the  mountains.  He  must  see  her.  Well !  she  has  resolved, 
in  her  refinement  of  virtue,  not  to  accept  him — not  to  marry  him 
or  any  other.  She  loves  him  too  well,  she  says,  to  dishonor  him. 
Very  good  !  very  satisfactory,  could  she  keep  her  word — were  she 
firm  in  her  resolution.  But,  is  it  possible  ?  Can  I  trust  her  1 
Is  any  woman  to  be  trusted  where  her  heart  is  full  of  the  one  ob- 
ject, where  the  passions  are  young  and  vigorous,  and  where  the 
opportunities  are  free  ?  She  will  tremble  and  hesitate,  and  be 
coy — recede,  yet  loiter, — listen,  and  finally,  forgetting  everything 
except  the  passion  which  she  feels,  she  will  fall  into  his  arms,  and 
he  will  drink  the  moist,  warm  consent  from  her  burning  lips.  So 
it  has  been  ever — so  it  will  be  ever — to  the  end  of  the  history. 
I  have  studied  the  sex  in  vain  if  it  be  not  so! — and  how  to  prevent 
all  this,  for  it  must  be  prevented  !  The  Adelantado  must  persuade 
this  knight  to  continue  with  the  expedition.  He  must  win  him.  He 
hath  the  charm  to  do  this,  when  he  is  persuaded  to  use  it ;  and  he 
must  use  it  now .  He  must  make  him  a  captain  of  twenties — nay, 
hundreds — but  he  must  bear  him  off;  and  meanwhile,  it  must  be 
for  me  to  encourage  him  with  a  promise  of  Olivia  on  his  return 
from  the  expedition.  To  gain  time  is  now  the  thing  essential. 
The  rest  may  be  left  to  the  thousand  casualties  of  such  an  adven- 
ture as  that  on  which  we  depart.  But  should  these  arts  fail ! 
should  the  persuasions  of  the  Adelantado  come  too  late — should 
the  pride  of  this  knight  of  Portugal  reject  our  overtures  with 
scorn,  as  perchance  he  may — should  my  promise  of  Olivia,  on 
his  return,  not  satisfy  him — as,  in  faith,  her  encouragement  hath 
been  sufficient  to  make  it  unsatisfactory — what  remains  1  Verily, 
but  one  remedy !  We  must  try  the  sharp  necessity  of  the  dag- 
ger. There  will  be  opportunities  enough,  I  trow.  It  must  either 
be  my  hand,  or  that  of  one  whose  soul  and  weapon  I  may  buy 
against  any  bosom  in  Cuba !" 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"  Laf.  I  have  then  sinned  against  his  experience,  and  trangressed  against  his  valor  ; 
•nd  my  state  that  way  is  dangerous,  since  I  cannot  yet  find  it  in  my  heart  to  repent. 
Here  he  comes.  I  pray  you  make  us  friends.  I  will  pursue  the  amity." 

ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

WE  have  heard  the  cold  and  cruel  determination  of  Don  Bal- 
thazar de  Alvaro.  We  may  be  assured  that  it  has  not  been 
spoken  idly,  or  with  a  mere  braggart  spirit,  and  that  his  resolu- 
tion and  his  will  correspond  too  well,  to  make  him  pause,  when- 
ever it  shall  seem  necessary  to  carry  out  his  purposes  in  action. 
For  the  present,  his  conclusions  led  him  at  once  to  seek  an  in- 
terview with  the  adelantado.  As  he  expected,  he  found  De  Soto 
already  in  possession  of  the  rumor  touching  the  withdrawal  of 
Philip  de  Vasconselos  from  the  expedition. 

"  Is  this  report  true,  Don  Balthazar  ?"  demanded  the  adelanta- 
do, who,  proud  as  he  was,  and  self-confident,  could  not  help 
showing  in  his  tone  and  manner  that  the  affair  seriously  dis- 
quieted him. 

"  It  is  not  improbable,  your  excellency :  the  report  comes 
through  several  persons  who  have  his  ear.  Nuno  de  Tobar  him- 
self assured  me  that  his  present  mood  inclined  him  to  forego 
the  expedition,  but  he  thought  that,  with  proper  efforts  made, 
Don  Philip  might  be  persuaded  to  review  his  decision." 

"  And  am  I  to  stoop  to  solicit  this  Portuguese  knight  to  be  my 
companion  in  my  arms?"  was  the  imperious  demand  of  De  Soto. 

"  Nay  !"  interposed,  gently  but  earnestly,  the  more  sedate 
spirit  of  his  wife,  the  Lady  Isabella — "  nay,  my  Lord,  this  is 
an  unreasonable  spirit  which  possesses  thee.  Don  Balthazar  is 
surely  too  much  thy  friend  to  counsel  thee  to  any  dishonor,  or 
descent  from  thy  high  dignity.  He  means  not  that  thou  shouldst 
sink  the  spirit  of  the  noble  and  the  knight,  to  conciliate  an  ex- 

136 


136  VASCONSELOS. 

acting  spirit,  or  win  the  countenance  of  the  unworthy.  He  but 
counsels,  as  I  have  striven  to  do,  that  in  the  case  of  these  brave 
knights  of  Portugal,  whom  none  hold  to  be  less  than  honorable 
in  very  high  degree,  thou  shouldst  assume  a  different  bearing 
from  that  which  is  but  too  common  for  our  Spaniards  to  show 
to  these  gentlemen.  Verily,  I  say  myself,  they  have  been  quite 
too  much  slighted  in  this  adventure,  the  more  especially  when 
we  remember  the  claims  of  Don  Philip,  not  merely  as  a  brave 
warrior,  and  polished  gentleman,  but  on  account  of  the  special 
qualities  which  he  possesses  from  a  former  sojourn  with  the 
Floridian  of  Apalachia.  And  where  is  the  shame  and  the  dis- 
credit to  thee  of  seeking  and  soliciting  this  noble  and  his  brother  ? 
Dost  thou  not  solicit  many, — many  who  are  far  less  worthy  1 
What  is  all  thy  toil  here,  the  parade  which  we  daily  make,  the 
court  which  we  hold,  the  feasts  we  give,  the  pageants  and  tour- 
neys we  exhibit,  but  the  fruit  of  a  solicitude  which  seeks  men, 
and  money  and  horses, — and  all  that  is  deemed  needful  to  the 
success  and  glory  of  thy  enterprise  1  Of  a  truth,  my  Lord,  I 
see,  as  I  have  long  seen,  that  there  is  no  true  wisdom  in  looking 
coldly  on  these  brave  spirits,  who,  I  doubt  not,  will  be  most  happy 
of  thy  favor,  and  most  hearty  in  thy  cause." 

The  Adelantado  trode  the  floor  with  hasty  strides  while  his 
wife  was  speaking.  When  she  had  done,  he  spoke. 

"  I  see  not  what  ye  would  have.  I  gave  these  knights  all  the 
countenance  that  was  possible.  They  were  entreated  to  our  pres- 
ence ;  they  were  dealt  honorably  with  when  they  came.  I  could 
not  strip  command  from  other  of  my  followers,  born  Castilians, 
who  brought  with  them  their  own  retainers.  I  could  not  for  my 
own  dignity,  abridge  my  own  command,  that  they  should  find 
the  followers  whom  they  did  not  bring.  I  dared  not  give  them 
high  places  in  the  expedition,  knowing  well  the  jealousy  of  our 
people  towards  the  foreigners.  But,  I  trow,  all  this  complaint 
of  neglect  had  never  been,  Don  Balthazar,  had  it  not  been  for 
thy  niece.  It  is  the  passion  of  this  knight  for  the  Lady  Olivia, 
and,  perchance,  thy  hostility  to  his  object,  which  hath  marred  his 
purpose,  and  not  any  lack  of  my  favor.  He  had  gone,  as  so 


DON  BALTHAZAR'S  TACTICS.  137 

many  do,  as  an  individual  adventurer,  a  single  lance  and  sword, 
but  for  his  passion  for  thy  niece  ;  and  thou,  I  wot,  hath  put  thy 
ban  upon  his  affection." 

"  I  have  put  no  ban  upon  his  affections,  your  excellency,  nor 
upon  hers.  He  is  free  to  come  and  go,  and  he  sees  my  niece 
when  he  will.  I  have  not  forbidden  him  ;  I  do  not  purpose  to 
forbid.  If  he  seeks  her  in  marriage,  and  she  affects  him,  I  with- 
hold no  consent." 

"  Thou  hast  changed  in  thy  resolve  since  we  last  spoke  of 
these  parties  !"  said  Donna  Isabella. 

"  True,  your  Ladyship.  I  hearkened  to  your  counsels,  and  re- 
solved in  compliance  with  them.  But  it  is,  perchance,  for  this 
very  reason  that  he  hath  declined  the  expedition.  Had  I  barred 
his  passage  to  the  Lady  Olivia,  he  hud  been  less  hopeful.  I  am 
free  to  say  that  I  believe  she  hath  large  power  over  him." 

"  And  he  over  her,"  quoth  the  Lady  Isabella,  "  or  the  woman's 
eyes  have  in  this  greatly  mistaken  the  usual  signs  of  the  woman's 
heart." 

"  Well !"  exclaimed  Hernan  de  Soto,  breaking  in  with  impa- 
tience, "well,  and  what  is  to  ceme  of  it?  Will  he  sink  into 
the  drudge  upon  a  vineyard?  Will  he  become  fruit-pruner  on 
the  hacienda  of  the  Lady  Olivia  de  Alvaro,  and  prepare  his 
monthly  accounts,  as  steward  and  agent,  for  the  examination  of 
the  severe  Senor  Don  Balthazar?  Tliink'st  thou  to  bring  him 
to  this  ]  Can  it  be  that  one  of  the  bravest  and  best  lances  in 
Portugal — ay,  and  Spain — will  be  content  with  this  petty  employ 
in  life  while  great  deeds  are  done  in  Florida — he  who,  but  a 
month  ago,  had  an  ambition  for  conquest,  and  a  passion  for  enter- 
prise, equal  to  that  of  the  most  eager  adventurer  in  Cuba"? 
Then  is  knighthood  greatly  altered  in  spirit  in  the  last  decade ; 
and  one  as  he  reads  may  well  wonder  if  the  deeds  of  Hernan  de 
Cordova  are  not  in  faith  a  pure  fable, — a  silly  invention  of  the 
poet.  Go  to,  Don  Balthazar,  you  shall  not  persuade  me  to 
this." 

"  I  would  persuade  you  to  nothing,  your  excellency,  which  you 


138  VASCONSELOS. 

deem  hurtful  to  your  honor  or  your  interests,  or  which  you  find 
displeasing  to  your  moods.  You  hear  what  is  reported  as  com- 
ing from  Don  Philip  himself.  I  believe  the  rumor,  and  think 
that  he  hath  so  expressed  himself.  It  is  for  you  to  say  whether 
the  loss  of  this  knight, — perchance  his  younger  brother  also, — be 
such  loss  as  you  can  suffer  without  grievance." 

"  Of  a  truth,  not !  we  want  every  man  whom  we  can  get,  and 
every  brave  knight  in  especial, — particularly  one  who  brings  with 
him  such  manifold  resources  as  Philip  de  Vascouselos." 

"This  being  the  case,  your  excellency,  it  may  be  well  to  ask, 
in  what  way,  without  derogation  from  your  high  dignity,  to  per- 
suade him  to  the  adventure.  I  have  shown  you  wherefore  I 
think  he  hath  resolved  to  quit  your  banner ; — the  neglect  of 
favor  ; — the  jealousy  of  our  Spaniards,  and  the  passion  which  he 
hath  for  my  niece." 

"  When  thou  sawest  these  things,  and  that  the  hope  of  thy 
niece  was  that  which  made  him  hostile  to  the  expedition,  why 
then  didst  thou  give  encouragement  to  this  puling  passion  for  the 
damsel  ?" 

"Nay,  my  lord,  thou  art  a;ain  unreasonable,"  interposed 
Donna  Isabella.  "  If  there  be  offence  in  that,  the  guilt  of  it  lies 
at  thy  door  and  mine.  Don  Balthazar,  as  thou  wilt  recall,  de- 
clared himself  in  opposition  to  the  suit  of  the  knight  of  Portugal, 
giving,  as  reason  for  it,  the  very  peril  which  we  now  fear,  that  he 
would  abandon  the  expedition  if  successful  with  the  lady.  Was 
it  not  so,  Don  Balthazar  ?" 

Don  Balthazar  bowed  assent,  and  then  proceeded  in  reply  to 
De  Soto. 

"  I  gave  no  encouragement,  your  excellency,  to  this  passion. 
In  truth,  for  many  reasons  I  was  greatly  hostile  to  it.  •  The  calm, 
and,  as  seemed  to  me,  as  I  trow  it  did  to  you,  the  insolent  pride 
of  this  knight's  bearing  was  rarely  inconsistent  with  his  poverty 
of  position  and  resource,  and  I  felt  a  pride  of  nation  which  re- 
volted to  think  that  the  large  possessions  of  my  niece  should  fall 
into  the  clutch  of  a  beggarly  and  grasping  stranger.  I  had 


A  DIFFERENCE  OF  OPINION.  139 

chosen  anc  ther  suitor  for  her — one  Don  Augustin  de  Sinolar,  a 
worthy  gentleman,  and  a  handsome,  whose  estates  lie  adjoining 
those  of  my  niece  at  the  hacienda  Matelos." 

"  And  didst  thou  realjy  seek  to  match  thy  niece  with  that  thing 
of  silk  and  straw,  De  Sinolar?  Fie  upon  thee,  Don  Balthazar — 
fie  upon  thee,  for  designing  a  most  unworthy  sacrifice." 

The  face  of  Don  Balthazar  flushed  to  the  temples,  as  he  listened 
to  the  rebuke  of  the  Lady  Isabella,  and  felt  the  sharp  indignant 
irlance  of  her  eye  upon  him.  But  he  had  his  reply. 

"  He  is  rich,  lady,  and  hath  a  good  exterior.  He  hath  the 
vanities  of  youth,  perchance ;  I  deny  it  not ;  but  he  hath  few  of 
the  vices  of  youth.  He  hath  meekness,  and  gentleness,  and  sim- 
plicity, and " 

"  Oh  !  hush  thee,  Don  Balthazar;  as  if  the  qualities  of  a  chicken 
or  a  hare  were  sufficient  to  satisfy  the  heart  of  a  woman.  Fie 
upon  thee." 

"  Briefly,"  interposed  De  Soto,  "  she  rejects  your  favorite 
De  Sinolar,  and  must  have  your  knight  of  Portugal." 

"  My  choice  was  not  hers,  and,  though  the  Lady  Isabella  re- 
bukes me,  I  must  say  I  am  sorry  for  it.  Olivia  had  been  much 
happier,  I  trow,  with  De  Sinolar,  than  she  ever  could  hope  to  be 
with  Philip  de  Vasconselos." 

"And  why  not,  I  pray  you?"  again  spoke  the  Lady  Isabella, 
showing  a  feminine  tenacity  on  a  subject  which  so  naturally  inter- 
ested the  pride  and  temper  of  the  sex. 

"Nay,  it  does  not  matter  to  our  present  quest,"  said  De  Soto. 
"  The  question  is,  does  she  resolve  to  wed  the  Portuguese  ?" 

"She  prefers  him,  beyond  all  question,  but  that  she  will  wed 
with  him  is  still — as  who  can  answer  for  the  caprices  of  the 
sex  ?" — and  this  was  said  with  a  sly  glance  at  the  Lady  Isabella — 
"  is  still  a  very  questionable  matter." 

"  Nay.  if  she  prefers  him,  and  he  seeks  her,  there  is  an  end  of 
the  doubt.  You  do  not  bar  the  progress,  and  none  denies.  She 
will  wed  with  him,  I  see,  and  he  is  lost  to  the  expedition — a  loss 
greater  than  fifty  matchlocks !" 


140  VASCOXSELOS. 

De  Soto  strode  the  apartment  with  a  vexation  which  he  did 
not  labor  to  conceal.  Now,  that  the  loss  of  the  knight  seemed 
to  be  certain,  he  was  at  no  pains  to  conceal  his  conviction  of  his 
value.  The  truth  is  that,  as  Don  Balthazar  had  indicated  already, 
the  pride  in  the  bearing  of  Don  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  and  the 
stately  reserve  which  he  maintained  to  the  Castilian  leaders,  De 
Soto  among  them,  had  touched  the  self-esteem  of  the  latter. 
Yet  this  conduct  of  the  Portuguese  was  not  properly  a  cause  of 
wonder  or  complaint,  when  it  was  remembered  with  what  open 
jealousy  he  was  regarded  by  the  Spaniards.  Don  Balthazar 
watched  his  superior  with  keen  eyes,  but  a  calm,  unspeaking 
countenance.  After  a  brief  pause,  he  spoke  as  follows : 

"  Nay,  your  Excellency,  it  does  not  seem  so  necessary  that  the 
Knight  should  be  lost  to  the  expedition,  even  should  he  wed  with 
my  niece.  He  may  be  persuaded  to  follow  it  after  he  hath  wed- 
ded  " 

"  Better  before !"  said  the  Lady  Isabella  with  a  smile. 

"  Yes,  I  grant  you,  better  before ;  and,  whatever  attempts  we 
make  upon  him  should  be  seasonably  tried  ;  but,  failing  to  pre- 
vent his  bridal — which,  I  repeat,  is  by  no  means  an  assured  thing 
— then  we  may  negotiate  that  he  follow  thee  when  the  honey-moon 
is  over.  Thou  wilt  suffer  one  or  more  small  caravels  to  remain 
from  thy  fleet,  wherewith  to  bring  stores  after  thee,  and  the  sick 
soldiers,  and  in  one  of  these  he  may  easily  depart  with  others. 
Thou  wilt  hardly  feel  his  loss  ere  he  is  with  thee.  Thou  wilt 
consume  several  weeks  in  thy  progress  along,  and  thy  descent 
upon  the  coast — in  the  unloading  of  thy  caravels,  the  landing  of 
the  horses,  hogs  and  cattle,  and  in  other  needful  preparations 
When  thou  art  ready  to  penetrate  the  country  of  the  Apalachi- 
an,  he  will,  if  we  use  the  proper  means  of  persuasion,  be  with 
thee  in  season." 

"  And  these  means  of  persuasion.  Sant'  lago !  Shall  I  go  to 
this  Knight  of  Portugal,  and  bend  myself  before  him,  and  say, 
'  Sir  Knight,  wilt  thou  honor  thy  servant  by  taking  thy  part  in 
this  expedition  ? ' " 


THE   EMISSARY.  141 

"  Nay,  nay,  my  lord "  began  the  lady,  but  the  Adelantado 

waved  his  hand  impatiently,  looking  to  Balthazar.  The  latter 
*did  not  delay  his  answer: — 

"  Will  your  Excellency  leave  this  matter  wholly  to  me  ?  I 
will  use  what  proper  arguments  I  may.  I  will  in  no  respect  com- 
mit thy  pride  or  honor.  I  will  promise  office,  and  the  command 
of  a  troop,  yet  in  no  way  conflict  with  thy  engagements." 

"  How  wilt  thou  do  this  ?" 

"  Nay,  will  it  not  suffice  that  it  shall  be  done1?" 

"  In  God's  name,  do  it ;  I  shall  say  no  more.  Thou  wilt  re- 
lieve me  of  an  embarrassment ;  and  if  thou  succeed'st  with  this 
churlish  cavalier,  will  do  help  to  the  enterprise,  as  none  better 
knows  than  thou  !  Away,  Don  Balthazar,  and  let  the  grass  not 
grow  beneath  thy  feet.  To-morrow  thou  knowest  the  tournament 
begins,  and  there  is  much  work  for  thee  here  as  elsewhere.  To 
thy  papers,  my  secretary — my  soul,  rather !" 

And  with  this  superb  compliment,  the  stately  Don  turned  to 
his  wife,  and  proceeded  to  dictate  as  she  wrote.  Don  Bal- 
thazar, having  carte  blanche,  made  his  bow  and  took  his  departure. 
He  lost  no  time  in  visiting  Philip  de  Vasconselos.  The  office 
was  one  which  the  uncle  of  Olivia  would  have  cheerfully  deputed 
to  another ;  bnt  this  was  impossible  ;  and  he  proceeded  accord- 
ingly to  the  work  before  him,  with  the  promptitude  of  one  to 
whom  the  duty  is  apparent.  His  hope  lay  in  the  temptation 
which  he  would  hold  forth  to  the  ambition  of  the  adventurer. 
Having  himself  little  faith  in  the  affections  as  sufficiently  compen- 
sative to  man,  he  persuaded  himself  that  the  aim  of  Philip  de 
Vasconselos  was  the  fortune  of  his  ward.  If  he  could  hold  forth 
a  sufficient  lure  of  the  same  character  through  another  medium, 
he  flattered  himself  that  he  should  be  successful.  None  doubted 
that  Florida  and  the  mountains  of  Apalachia  concealed  treasures 
in  gold  and  silver,  gems  and  precious  stones,  equal  to  any  in  the 
keeping  of  Peru.  He  knew  that  this  faith  was  especially  taught 
by  the  Portuguese  who  had  been  one  of  the  explorers  of  that 
country  with  the  Cavalier  Cabeza  de  Vaca.  All  that  seemed 
essential,  therefore,  to  beguiling  him  to  the  enterprise,  \vas  to 


142  VASCONSELOS. 

mollify  his  pride,  and  secure  him  the  means  of  going  thither  ir  a 
style  which  should  maintain  his  dignity  and  afford  him  an  ade- 
quate command.  For  this  money  was  necessary,  and  De  So  1,0  ' 
had  none  to  spare.  The  resolution  which  Don  Balthazar  had 
formed,  was  to  use  the  means  afforded  him  by  the  large  income 
from  the  estate  of  his  niece,  of  which  he  had  complete  control. 
To  employ  the  wealth  of  Olivia  in  ridding  her  of  two  dangerous 
lovers,  seemed  to  him  a  perfectly  legitimate  measure ;  though, 
in  respect  to  the  propriety  of  the  proceeding,  he  never  allowed 
himself  to  doubt  for  a  moment.  Thus  prepared  with  his  gen- 
eral plan  of  action,  he  entered  the  humble  dwelling  of  the  Knight 
of  Portugal. 

Philip  de  Vasconselos  beheld  the  approach  of  the  unusual  vis- 
itor without  surprise.  He  had,  in  fact,  anticipated  the  unwonted 
courtesy,  and  we  may  add,  had  partly  designed  it  should  be  so, 
when  he  instructed  his  friends  to  declare  aloud  his  determination. 
He  knew  quite  as  well  as  any  other  person,  how  necessary  he 
was  to  the  purposes  of  De  Soto.  The  appearance  of  Don  Bal- 
thazar seemed  to  assure  him  also  of  the  conviction  felt  by  the 
latter  that  his  niece  would  favor  the  suit  of  the  Portuguese.  The 
instincts  of  Philip  de  Vasconselos  on  this  subject  had  been 
strengthened  by  the  positive  reports  of  Nuno  de  Tobar.  They 
were  confirmed  by  the  visit  of  the  uncle.  His  hands  were  ac- 
cordingly strengthened.  He  was  prepared  for  the  interview. 
Though  yet  a  young  man,  hardly  more  than  thirty,  he  had  been 
a  soldier ;  had  travelled  much  ;  mingled  much  with  men ;  en- 
dured those  vicissitudes  which  strengthen  patience,  teach  coolness, 
and  give  insight ;  and  with  a  mind  naturally  acute,  and  a  judg- 
ment well  balanced  and  secure,  he  was  more  than  a  match  foi 
men  of  greater  age  and  as  much  experience.  He  was  a  politician 
over  whom  the  habitual  cunning  of  Don  Balthazar  could  obtain 
no  advantage.  It  was  a  curious  study  to  watch  the  interview 
between  the  parties — to  behold  the  Castilian  Don  doubling  like  a 
fox  through  all  the  avenues  of  his  art;  to  see  him  circling  around 
his  object,  without  approaching  it ;  to  note  how  warily  he  keptj 
in  regard  to  his  secret  fears,  while  holding  forth  his  most  beguil- 


DIAMOND   CUT   DIAMOND.  143 

ing  lures; — in  particular  to  note  how  sweetly  he  could  insinuate 
his  flatteries  of  the  man  he  hated  in  his  soul,  and  had  already  re- 
solved, simpler  remedies  having  failed  him,  to  treat  with  sharp 
medicine  at  the  point  of  his  dagger.  He  tried  the  pulse  of  Phil- 
ip's vanity  and  ambition  with  most  laborious  art,  and  a  skill  of 
practice  which  had  succeeded  with  ninety-nine  in  the  hundred  of 
the  young  men  of  the  time.  But  he  tried  in  vain. 

Yet  Philip  de  Vasconselos  gave  him  no  direct  denial.  The 
young  man  opposed  art  to  art.  He  showed  himself  highly  grati- 
fu-d  with  the  praises  of  the  other.  He  made  no  effort  to  dis- 
guise the  ambition  which  he  really  felt,  and  suffered  the  old 
politician  to  believe  that  all  his  flatteries  had  made  their  way  to 
his  heart.  He  was  never  more  frank  and  cordial  in  his  life.  He 
spoke  to  Don  Balthazar  as  to  the  uncle  of  Olivia,  and  in  the  strain 
of  one  who  regarded  him  as  in  no  degree  adverse  to  the  free 
course  of  her  affections.  He  did  not  say  to  him,  "  I  love  your 
niece," — he  did  not  even  speak  of  her;  yet  he  so  shaped  his 
speech,  as  to  a  confidential  friend,  and  so  governed  tone  and  coun- 
tenance equally  as  to  indicate  to  the  other  the  utter  absence  from 
his  thoughts  of  any  doubt  that  he,  Don  Balthazar,  could  be  other 
than  friendly  to  himself  and  objects.  The  confidence  and  ease 
with  which  he  gave  himself  outr-apparently— just  forebore  the  look 
of  self-complaisance,  and  expressed  the  sense  and  spirit  of  a  man 
who  felt  that  his  chances  with  fortune  were  quite  even,  or  at  least 
looked  so  fair,  as  would  render  any  reluctance  to  press  them,  a 
something  too  dastardly  for  the  toleration  of  any  brave  man. 
In  the  end,  all  that  Don  Balthazar  could  obtain  from  the  young 
knight  was  a  promise  to  consider  his  proffers — to  deliberate 
honestly  upon  them, — and  resolve  seasonably,  giving  his  final 
answer  before  the  departure  of  the  fleet. 

"  Demonios  !"  muttered  the  Castilian  to  himself,  when  he  had 
taken  his  departure :  "This  dog  of  a  Moor  thinks  he  already  hath 
the  rabbit  in  a  sack.  But  he  shall  lose  his  own  skin  ere  he  hath. 
It  is  clear  that  he  hopes  for  Olivia's  consent.  Now  will  it  depend 
on  her  whether  he  tastes  my  dagger  or  not.  If  her  virtue — Ha ! 
ha  !  virtue  ! — if  her  virtue  holds  out  to  refusal  of  his  hand,  why 


1-4-1  VASCONSELOS. 

let  the  dog  drift  where  the  seas  may  carry  him  !  but  if,  as  I  fear, 
her  passion  for  him  proves  too  strong  for  her  magnanimity,  he 
must  die  !  So  be  it !  He  shall  never  live  to  be  her  master — or 
mine !" 

He  returned  with  all  diligence  to  the  presence  of  the  Adelan- 
tado,  whom  he  found  in  the  most  joyous  mood.  The  change  of 
a  couple  of  hours  had  effected  wonders.  When  he  left  his  pres- 
ence De  Soto  was  angry  and  sullen.  Now  his  mirth  was  abso- 
lutely boisterous.  In  this  merriment,  though  more  temperately, 
Donna  Isabella  shared.  Don  Balthazar  looked  on  with  wonder, 
and  several  times  vainly  essayed  to  speak.  He  was  always 
overborne  by  the  laughter  of  his  superior. 

"  Tell  me  nothing  yet,"  cried  De  Soto,  at  an  interval  in  his 
bursts  of  mirth, — "  Nothing  that  shall  qualify  my  pleasure.  Ha ! 
ha !  ha !  wait,  good  Don  Balthazar,  till  I  can  recover  breath,  when 
you  shall  hear,  and  then,  if  it  be  not  wholly  against  your  princi- 
ple, you  shall  laugh  too." 

"  Ay,  ay,  your  excellency,  as  Sancho  counsels,  '  Let  not  thy 
secret  rot  in  thy  keeping  ! '  " 

"Ere  long  it  will  be  no  secret.  The  story  is  too  good  to  be 
kept  from  air.  It  must  be  sent  abroad,  and  no  doubt  will  gain 
addition  as  it  goes.  Thus,  then,  there  were  some  barques  that 
put  into  port,  as  thou  knowest,  from  stress  of  weather  yesterday. 
One  of  them  had  sprung  aleak,  and  needed  repair.  On  board  of 
this  vessel  came  Hernan  Ponce,  an  old  comrade  of  mine  in  Peru. 
We  were  dear  friends  in  Peru,  and  we  made  a  brotherhood  be- 
tween us,  which  is,  as  thou  knowest,  a  copartnership  for  common 
interests  and  profits,  to  last  through  life.  We  were  thus  to  share 
our  gains  and  losses  equally,  our  honors  as  our  profits." 

"  Ah !  and  he  now  comes  to  claim  of  thee  the  half  of  thy  state 
here,  and  thy  command  in  the  expedition  ?" 

*'  Nothing  half  so  good,  Don  Balthazar.  He  claims  nothing  at 
my  hands,  but  his  aim  is  to  escape  from  claims  of  mine.  Thou 
must  know,  then,  that  Hernan  Ponce  hath  made  great  profits  in 
Peru,  and  with  immense  wealth  of  gold  and  silver,  jewels  and 
precious  stones,  he  hath  embarked  at  Nombre  de  Dios  for  Spain. 


THE   TREASURE.  145 

It  is  greatly  against  his  will  that  he  hath  put  into  Havana.  So 
great  was  his  fear  of  my  demands  that  he  made  great  offers  to  the 
Captain  of  the  barque,  Diego  de  Miruelos,  who  was  an  old  fol- 
lower of  mine,  if  he  would  steer  wide  of  Havana,  though  he  should 
peril  the  ship's  safety  in  doing  so.  But  Diego,  who  has  a  keen 
scent  for  a  rogue's  secret,  and  who  knew  the  danger  of  his  vessel, 
was  not  to  be  overborne.  So  here  he  is ;  and  yesterday  he  ad- 
vised me,  by  secret  message,  of  him  he  hath  on  board.  Where- 
upon I  sent  a  most  courteous  dispatch  to  Hernan  Ponce,  to  com- 
pliment and  congratulate  him  on  his  arrival,  and  to  entreat  him  to 
come  on  shore,  and  in  regard  to  our  brotherhood,  to  share  my 
dwelling,  my  command,  and  the  honors  and  profits  of  my  expedi- 
tion." 

'*  Ah !  well— he  hath  complied  ?  " 

"  No  !  no  !  There  is  something  of  the  fox  in  Hernan  Ponce, 
it  appears,  who  showed  himself  a  true  comrade  only  when  he 
was  ;i  poor  adventurer.  Now,  that  he  hath  grown  rich,  the  na- 
ture changes.  He  excused  himself  from  corning  ashore  yester- 
day, pleading  fatigue  ;  but  he  is  to  visit  me  to-day.  Meanwhile, 
Diego  gave  me  to  understand  that  Hernan  held  secret  commu- 
nication with  the  shore,  and  counselled  me  to  set  eyes  abroad, 
such  as  might  see  clearly  amid  the  darkness.  Whereupon,  I  did 
so,  until  every  inlet  and  landing-place  was  covered  with  my 
watchers.  It  was  a  wise  precaution.  Look  at  the  fruits  of  it." 

Drawing  a  curtain,  De  Soto  showed  to  his  guest  a  couple  of 
goodly  coffers,  in  which,  the  lids  being  removed,  could  be  seen 
stores  of  gold,  and  pearls,  and  precious  stones,  heaped  to  full- 
ness. 

"These,"  continued  De  Soto,  "  were  sent  ashore  last  night,  to 
be  hidden  somewhere.  But,  even  as  they  were  landed,  my  spies 
set  upon  the  mariners,  dispersed  them,  seized  upon  the  treasure, 
and  it  is  here.  I  learn  from  Diego  that  Hernan  kept  nothing 
on  board  but  his  coffers  of  silver.  These,  if  pressed,  he  was  to 
share  with  me  in  compliance  with  our  articles  of  brotherhood. 
Have  I  not  reason  for  merriment,  think  you  ?  Ha  !  ha !  ha !  how 
will  he  stare  when  he  beholds  them  ! " 
7 


146  VASCONSELOS. 

"  Wilt  thou  show  them  ?" 

"  Eh !  why  not  1  He  shall  see — the  sordid  runagate,  that  1 
know  him  !  I  will  shame  him  with  my  discovery." 

"  Which  is  clearly  forfeit." 

"  Nay,  the  dog.  I  will  not  keep  his  treasure  from  him.  I  will 
spit  upon  it,  and  force  his  shame  upon  him." 

"It  is  a  gift  of  fortune.  Thou  wilt  need  it  all,  Don  Her- 
nan." 

"  Nay,  teach  not  that,"  interposed  Donna  Isabella ;  "  rather 
let  it  go,  lest  we  be  haunted  by  the  prayers  of  hate  and  avarice. 
My  lord  will,  I  trust,  need  none  of  the  treasure  which  is  yielded 
grudgingly.  I  would  not  have  his  honor  reproached  by  scan- 
dal." 

"  But  it  is  his  right,  Senora." 

"Yes  !  but  one  may  well  forego  a  right  when  there  would  be 
feeling  of  shame,  and  not  pride,  in  its  assertion.  Better  let  my 
lord  do  as  he  nobly  resolves, — spit  upon  the  treasure,  and  so 
upon  the  baseness  of  the  owner." 

It  was  probably  the  advice  of  the  lady  that  led  De  Soto  to  his 
determination.  He  was  rather  inclined  to  grasp  at  treasure  from 
whatever  source,  and  his  reputation  is  not  above  the  reproach  of 
an  unbecoming  avarice.  While  they  were  yet  speaking,  the 
attendants  announced  the  approach  of  Hernan  Ponce,  upon 
which  Don  Balthazar  said, — 

"  My  need  requires  me  elsewhere.  I  will  not  stay  to  see  thy 
treatment  of  this  partner  of  thine,  particularly,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
thou  dost  unwisely  in  restoring  him  his  treasure.  Better  wert 
thou  to  help  thyself,  and  punish  him  thus.  It  were  the  most 
effectual  manner  for  teaching  him  his  baseness.  He  would  then 
surely  feel  it.  Such  a  wretch  will  go  off  exulting,  even  though 
thy  spittle  should  somewhat  stain  his  pearls." 

"  What  of  the  knight  of  Portugal  ?  Dost  thou  make  any  thing 
of  him?" 

"  He  speaks  fairly,  but  does  not  yet  decide.  He  will  deliber- 
ate upon  my  counsel  and  proposals." 

"  Ah  !  he  will  deliberate.     A  curse  upon  the  insolence  of  the 


HERNAN   PONCE.  147 

Moor — for  all  these  Portuguese  are  of  mixed  blood,  I  think  ! — 
ne  will  deliberate  whether  he  will  serve  in  ranks  of  honor — in 
the  service  of  a  Castilian  knight.  I  would  he  knew  nothing  of 
the  Apalachia,  or  that  I  had  those  about  me  who  knew  half  so 
much,  then  should  he  never  set  foot  in  this  enterprise,  which  is 
too  great  a  glory  for  such  as  he." 

"  Ah !  my  lord,  thou  dost  this  young  knight  a  great  wrong,  I 
fear,"  said  the  lady. 

"Break  off,"  said  Don  Balthazar — "here  comes  your  wealthy 
brother  in  arms  and  fortune.  A  Dios,  your  excellency.  Se- 
nora,  I  kiss  your  hands." 

"  Let  down  the  curtain  upon  the  coffers,"  said  De  Soto  hastily, 
as  the  footsteps  sounded  at  the  door  without.  In  the  next  mo- 
ment, the  unhappy  Hernan  Ponce  was  ushered  into  the  apart- 
ment. He  had  been  apprised  of  the  miscarriage  of  his  treasure, 
he  suspected  into  whose  hands  it  had  fallen — and,  in  his  loss,  he 
was  taught  to  see  his  own  baseness.  His  looks  showed  what  he 
feared  and  felt.  But  in  those  of  the  Adelantado  and  his  noble 
lady  he  saw  nothing  but  cheering  smiles,  and  a  frank  welcome. 
De  Soto  received  him  as  an  old  friend,  and  betrayed  no  suspicion, 
and  expressed  no  unkindness.  He  resolved  to  say  nothing  about 
the  captured  treasure  until  Ponce  should  speak.  For  a  long 
time  the  latter  forbore,  talking  about  wholly  indifferent  subjects. 
But  where  the  treasure  is,  there  will  the  heart  be  also, — and  out 
of  the  fullness  of  the  heart  will  the  mouth  be  forced  to  speak. 
The  luckless  adventurer,  at  length,  delivered  himself  of  his  secret, 
and  told  the  story  of  his  misfortunes.  The  Adelantado  had  been 
waiting  for  this  opportunity." 

"  What !  Hernan  Ponce,  hadst  thou  then  such  a  treasure  as 
thou  describest,  and  wouldst  thou  have  hidden  it  from  me  ?  Was 
I  not  to  share  with  thee  in  thy  prosperity,  even  as  I  had  shared 
with  thee  in  thy  adversity  ?  Lo  !  now  the  difference  between 
us.  Behold  these  articles,  properly  devised,  signed,  and  under 
seal,  in  which,  as  thou  seest,  all  that  I  have  expended  in  my  pre- 
sent expedition,  all  the  ships  and  munitions,  the  arms,  the  horses, 
the  men  and  money  -v  all  the  titles,  commands,  and  privileges 


148  VASCONSELOS. 

which  I  have  obtained  from  the  crown,  I  have  set  down  and 
devised  for  our  equal  benefit,  and  made  thy  half  secure  to  thee, 
according  to  the  articles  of  fraternity  and  copartnership  between 
us.  Read  the  writings  for  thyself.  See  the  names  of  the  wit- 
nesses. Hast  thou  cause  of  complaint  1  Wilt  thou  say  that  I 
have  not,  in  all  things,  fulfilled  my  part  of  the  contract  of  bro- 
therhood ?  " 

Hernan  Ponce  read,  and  humbled  himself.  He  admitted  the 
justice  with  which  De  Soto  had  proceeded,  and  confessed  that 
he  had  been  unworthy  of  such  a  brother. 

"  It  is  not  too  late  to  atone,  Hernan  Ponce.  The  way  is  open 
to  thee  still.  If  thou  art  pleased  to  share  the  expedition  with 
me,  my  titles  and  commands,  my  stores  and  possessions,  I  will 
yield  thee  such  as  thou  may'st  prefer.  The  one  half  of  all  shall 
be  thine  ;  the  one  half  of  the  conquest  and  the  treasures  we  may 
win." 

The  humiliation  of  Hernan  Ponce  increased,  under  the  noble 
treatment  of  his  old  companion  in  arms,  but  he  said  mourn- 
fully— 

"  It  is  vain  now,  since,  except  the  silver  which  is  on  board  the 
vessel,  I  have  no  treasure  of  value  left.  It  would  be  a  shame  and 
a  wrong  to  accept  the  half  of  thine,  when  I  held  back  thy  proper 
share  of  what  was  mine." 

"  Nay,  Hernan  Ponce,  it  is  not  so  evil  with  thee  yet.  Thy 
treasures  hath  fallen  into  friendly  hands.  Look,  Senor,  not  a 
pearl  is  missing  from  thy  coffers." 

As  he  spoke,  Donna  Isabella  raised  the  curtain,  and  the  greedy 
miser  gasped  with  joyous  wonder,  as  he  eagerly  lifted  the  cover 
from  the  coffers,  and  saw  that  his  gold  and  jewels  remained  un- 
touched." 

But  this  episode  need  not  detain  us  longer.  The  history  is 
briefly  told  by  the  chronicler.  Hernan  Ponce  had  no  ambition 
for  conquest.  He  was  content  with  the  treasures  in  possession. 
Now  that  his  grasp  was  once  more  upon  his  coffers,  he  was  for 
incurring  no  further  risks.  The  Spanish  equivalent  for  our 
English — "  bird  in  the  hand  " — was  tripping  busily  in  his  brain. 


THE   PAKTNERSHIP   DISSOLVED.  149 

The  honors  proposed  to  Mm  seemed  to  be  rather  too  expensive. 
He  had  just  left  the  land  of  savages  arid  strife,  and  he  had  no 
reason  to  suppose  that  the  Apalachians  were  like  to  prove  more 
genial  companions  than  those  of  Panama.  He  expressed  himself 
very  grateful  to  his  brother  in  arms,  the  noble  Adelantado,  but 
really  he  could  not  think  of  depriving  him  of  any  share  of  his 
well-won  honors — any  of  the  results  likely  to  accrue  from  his 
well-grounded  hopes  of  conquest.  For  his  own  part,  he  needed 
change  of  air  from  the  new  world  to  the  old.  His  health  required 
it,  and  his  treasures.  He  longed  to  air  his  pearls  hi  the  atmo- 
sphere of  Seville ;  he  thought  his  ingots  would  be  improved  by 
the  coinage  of  his  majesty.  He  was  curious  to  look  at  the  ope- 
rations of  the  mint.  And  there  were  many  other  reasons  equally 
strong  and  good.  We  do  not  mean  to  say  that  he  urged  all 
these  aloud.  They  were  the  unspoken  arguments  of  his  secret 
soul.  De  Soto  listened  with  contempt.  Glad  to  get  back  his 
treasures,  and  perhaps  feeling  some  compunctions  of  conscience, 
Hernan  Ponce  presented  to  the  Lady  Isabella  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars in  gold,  which  he  entreated  her  graciously  to  accept.  Had 
the  story  ceased  here,  we  might  have  suffered  Hernan  Ponce  to 
depart,  with  the  reputation  of  being  less  base  and  unworthy  than 
he  originally  appeared.  But  there  is  another  scene  in  the  drama 
which,  though  occurring  afterwards,  may  very  well  be  given  in 
this  place.  His  miser  soul  repented  of  this  liberality,  and  wait- 
ing until  De  S.)to  had  sailed  for  Florida,  he  brought  suit  to  re- 
cover the  ten  thousand  dollars  from  the  Lady  Isabella.  But 
this  brave  woman,  to  whom  he  really  owed  the  restoration  of 
all  his  treasure,  was  not  to  be  outwitted  or  alarmed.  She  re- 
plied quietly  that  there  wras  a  long  account  between  her  husband 
and  the  plaintiff,  as  might  be  seen  in  the  articles  of  copartnership ; 
that  the  latter  owed  De  Soto  more  than  fifty  thousand  ducats, 
being  half  of  the  outfit  for  the  expedition  ;  and  concluded  by  de- 
manding the  arrest  of  the  debtor,  and  his  detention  until  the  judg- 
ment should  be  given  on  the  facts.  Hernan  Ponce  got  wind  of 
this  replication  in  due  season,  and  without  waiting  the  return 
of  his  ten  thousand  dollars,  put  out  to  sea,  satisfied  with  his  birds 


150 


VASCONSELOS. 


in  hand,  and  leaving  those  in  the  bush  to  fly  whither  they  thought 
proper.  They  had  already  taken  wing  with  a  hundred  thousand 
more  for  the  forests  of  the  Apalachian.  But  we  must  not  antici- 
pate. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

'  Weep  not  a   thine  own  -words,  tho'  they  must  make  SMCLI.KI  . 

Me  weep." 
'  What  cruel  sufferings,  more  than  she  has  known, 

Canst  thou  jnflict  r"  Ib 

THE  household  of  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro  maintained  its  ac- 
customed serenity  to  the  world  without.  Its  order  had  under- 
gone no  apparent  disturbance  since  the  death  of  old  Anita,  and 
Sylvia,  her  mestizo  successor,  seemed  to  fall  as  naturally  into 
her  habits,  as  if  she  had  been  trained  directly  under  them.  No 
doubt  the  stern  discipline  of  her  master  had  tutored  her  to  im- 
plicit obedience,  while  his  precaution  had  left  nothing  doubtful 
in  the  directions  which  he  gave  her  for  her  government  during 
his  absence.  But  we  may  mention  here,  that  the  girl  Juana,  if 
not  refractory,  was  inattentive,  and  the  old  hag  who  now  super- 
intended the  household  had  occasion  to  notice  her  frequent  and 
prolonged  absences,  for  which  the  girl,  on  her  return,  was  unwill- 
ing, or  unable  to  account.  Once  or  twice  during  the  progress  of 
the  last  twenty-four  hours,  had  Sylvia  felt  it  incumbent  on  her 
to  administer  an  expressive  cuff  or  two  to  the  cheeks  of  the  sul- 
len servant,  winding  up  these  salutary  admonitions  with  threats 
of  more  potent  handling,  and  a  final  appeal  to  Don  Balthazar. 
But  blows  and  threats  did  not  much  mend  the  matter.  They 
only  increased  the  dogged  obstinacy  and  sullenness  of  the  girl ; 
who,  however,  did  not  spare  her  young  mistress  the  recital  of 
her  cruel  wrongs.  She  concluded  always,  however,  with  a  sig- 
nificant and  monitory  shaking  of  the  head,  winding  up  with  the 
repeated  assurance  of  redress,  both  for  herself  and  mistress. 

Olivia  did  not  much  heed  these  assurances,  and  listened,  sim- 
ply, in  that  mood  of  listlessness,  which  had  followed  her  despair- 
ing determination  not  to  wed  with  Philip  de  Vasconselos.  She 

151 


152  VASCOXSELOS. 

abandoned  herself  to  this  feeling,  and  its  external  exhibition  was 
apathy,  Still,  she  somewhat  wondered  that  she  did  not  see  her 
lover — that  he  did  not  make  his  appearance,  as  her  uncle  feared, 
as  her  friend  Leonora  de  Tobar  had  asserted  he  would  appear, 
and  as  she  felt  it  criminal  to  hope.  A  morning  visit  from  Leo- 
nora, the  thoughtless,  the  joyous,  upon  whom  neither  shame  nor 
so*"v>vr  seemed  to  sit  long,  gave  her  all  the  little  tattle  of  the 
town ;  and  she  ran  on,  with  tongue  at  random,  discoursing  of  a 
thousand  matters  in  which  Olivia  took  no  interest.  It  was  only 
when  Philip  de  Vasconselos  became  the  subject,  that  the  visitor 
found  an  expression  of  eagerness  and  concern  in  the  eyes  of  her 
suffering  hostess. 

"  It  is  certain  that  he  loves  you  to  distraction,  Olivia.  Nuno 
says  so,  and  he  ought  to  know ;  and  I  suppose  he  could  tell  me 
a  great  many  things  to  prove  it ;  but  he  won't.  He  says  Philip 
is  his  friend,  and  he  can't  betray  his  friend's  secrets.  As  if  a 
husband  should  have  any  secrets  from  his  wife ;  and  as  if  I 
couldn't  keep  a  secret.  Now  you  know,  Olivia,  nobody  better 
keeps  a  secret  than  I.  I  never  tell  any  thing— never!  My 
mouth  is  sealed  upon  a  secret,  as  solemnly  and  sacredly,  Livy, 
as  if  it  were  a — a  what  1 — why  a  kiss,  to  be  sure.  He  might  trust 
me,  I'm  sure,  with  every  thing  he  knows — with  every  thing  he's 
seen  and  done,  and  not  a  syllable  should  ever  pass  my  lips. 
And  yet,  would  you  believe  it,  when  I  ask  him  about  your  Philip 
and  his  secrets,  only  to  tell  you  every  thing,  why  he  tells  me 
that  Philip  says  he  will  tell  me,  and  that  I  will  tell  you,  and  then 
every  body  will  know  every  thing.  The  fact  is,  Livy,  one  thing 
is  very  certain  to  me,  that  if  your  Philip  speaks  in  that  way — 
though  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it — he's  a  very  saucy  person, 
and  Nuno  should  not  listen  to  him.  But  Nuno  believes  him  the 
best  fellow  in  the  world,  and  says  he  loves  him  next  to  me. 
Not  close,  you  know,  but  far  off — that  is,  he  has  no  friendship 
for  any  body  betwixt  him  and  me.  Now  I'll  let  you  into  a  great 
secret  that  Nuno  told  me,  and  O  !  he  was  so  positive  that  you 
shouldn't  hear,  of  all  the  world,  and  I  promised  him  not  to  tell 
you,  Livy,  but  I  didn't  mean  it,  and  I  know  better  than  all  that ; 


THE   SECRET.  153 

for  what  is  a  friend  meant  for,  if  one  is  to  tell  them  no  secrets 
at  all,  and  hear  no  secrets  from  them  ?  Pretty  friendship  that, 
indeed  !  No !  no  !  I  know  better,  and  I'll  be  faithful  to  you, 
Livy,  and  tell  you  every  thing." 

The  necessity  of  stopping  to  take  breath  alone  arrested  the 
torrent.  Meanwhile,  Olivia  had  not  the  heart  to  reject  the  alleged 
secret.  That  which  was  stirring  in  her  own  bosom,  and  making 
her  wretched,  seemed  to  catch  at  every  suggestion  from  without, 
as  if  it  brought  with  it  a  hope  ;  and,  indeed,  we  are  half  inclined 
to  think  that  very  young  girls,  of  the  age  of  these  two,  have 
not  often  been  persuaded  to  reject  a  revelation  in  which  those 
great  feminine  interests,  of  love  and  marriage,  are  the  understood 
elements.  Olivia,  however,  sat  incurious — seemingly  so,  at  least 
— at  all  events,  she  was  passive. 

"Well!  don't  you  ask  what  the  secret  is,  Livy?  you  don't 
mean  to  pretend  that  you  don't  care ;  for,  don't  I  know  you're 
dying  for  this  same  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  and  that  you  think 
more  of  the  plumes  in  his  helmet  than  of  the  heads  of  all  other 
men?" 

Olivia  shook  her  head. 

"  Oh !  if  you  don't  wish  to  know,  Mary  Mother,  I  don't  wish 
to  force  it  upon  you.  I  can  get  any  number  of  girls  to  listen  to 
my  secrets." 

And  she  pouted  and  affected  a  moment's  reserve.  But  she 
might  as  well  have  sought  to  stifle  a  volcano  with  a  soup-plate, 
as  to  endeavor  to  keep  down  her  tidings  when  they  had  once 
ascended  to  her  tongue. 

'•  Ah !  I  see  you  are  sorry,  now !  Well,  you  shall  hear  it. 
You  must  know,  then,  that  Philip  has  determined  not  to  go  with 
the  Adelantado,  and  he  told  Nuno  that  it  was  because  he  loved 
you  so  much.  And  Nuno  says  it  has  caused  a  great  hubbub, 
and  the  Adelantado  is  in  quite  a  fix,  and  your  uncle,  the  old  Turk, 
has  been  sent  to  your  Philip  to  persuade  him ;  and  Nuno  thinks 
that  Don  Balthazar  has  made  him  a  promise  that  if  he  goes  with 
the  expedition,  and  makes  but  one  campaign,  that  he  shall  then 
have  your  hand.  So  that  all  is  to  end  happily  at  last,  Livy.  My 

7* 


151  VASCONSELOS. 

Nuno  and  your  Philip  will  come  home  together,  and  when  you  are 
married,  we'll  buy  a  hacienda  alongside  of  yours  at  Matelos,  and 
we'll  be  as  happy  as  birds  of  Pai-adise  with  our  husbands.  Isn't 
it  nice,  Livy,  and  won't  we  be  so  happy — so  very,  very  happy  ]" 

"  Never !  never !"  exclaimed  the  poor  girl  solemnly,  her  head 
drooping  upon  her  hands,  through  the  fingers  of  which  the  big 
tears  were  seen  to  trickle. 

"  Oh !  but  we  will,  I  tell  you.  None  of  your  nevers  for  me. 
It  must  be  so!  Why,  Livy,  what  do  you  cry  for?  Because 
you  will  have  the  very  person  that  you  love." 

"  No !  no !     I  shall  never  marry,  Leonora.'' 

"Oh!  I  know  better  than  that!  Why,  what  in  the  world 
were  you  born  for,  Livy  1  What  but  to  marry  a  noble  gentle- 
man, and — and — oh,  you  know  what  I  mean ;  so  don't  look  s6 
like  a  simpleton." 

"  I  have  resolved  not  to  marry,  Leonora.  I  hope" — here  her 
voice  trembled — "  I  hope  that  Don  Philip  will  never  compel  me 
to  refuse  his  offer." 

"  Of  course,  he  won't  compel  you  to  refuse.  No,  indeed ;  if  I 
were  he  I'd  rather  compel  you  the  other  way,  for  say  what  you 
will,  you  love  him,  and  you'll  have  him,  if  he  ever  asks  you ; 
and  he  loves  you,  and  he  will  ask  you ;  and  I  shall  be  at  the 
wedding,  and  we  will  live  alongside  of  each  other,  in  our  two 
heavenly  haciendas  at  Matelos,  and  there  shall  be  no  more  wars, 
and  no  more  campaigns  in  Florida,  and — and — " 

There  was  another  breathing  spell  necessary  for  farther  pro- 
gress. This  found,  the  gay,  thoughtless  creature  resumed. 

"  But  I  haven't  told  you  half  of  my  secrets.  Nuno  says  that 
Philip  and  his  brother  Andres  have  quarrelled,  and  it  is  all  on 
your  account.  He  told  Philip  that  you  had  refused  him " 

"  He  should  not  have  done  that." 

"  No !  and  by  the  way,  Livy,  that's  what  I  have  to  quarrel 
with  you  about.  You  never  told  me,  your  own  sister  in  love,  a 
word  about  that  business.  Oh !  you  sly,  selfish  thiag.  To  keep 
such  a  good  secret  to  yourself,  and  never  so  much  as  give  me  a 
peep  at  it.  I  wouldn't  have  served  you  so." 


LEONORA'S  CONSOLATION.  155 

"  You  would  have  told  it  to  Don  Nuno  ?" 

"  No,  indeed  !  I  can  keep  a  secret  as  close,  you  know,  as  any- 
body. As  for  him,  I  never  tell  him  anything.  But,  let  me  tell 
you  about  the  quarrel.  There  were  high  words  between  them. 
Don  Andres  told  Nuno  himself.  Philip  never  said  a  word ; — • 
and  Don  Andres  went  off  from  him  and  took  away  all  the  Por- 
tuguese soldiers,  who  were  all  followers  of  Don  Andres.  He 
has  the  money,  you  know,  though  he  is  the  younger  brother. 
Yet  I  doubt  if  he  has  any  great  deal  of  that !  But  Philip  has  still 
less,  having  spent  all  his  patrimony  in  Florida  before,  when  he 
went  there  with  Cabeza  de  Vaga.  Philip  hasn't  even  a  page  to 
buckle  on  his  armor,  and  he  has  given  Nuno  his  money — all  that 
he  has,  I  suspect, — to  buy  him  a  negro  boy  to  serve  as  a  page 
to  bring  his  horse  and  buckle  on  his  armor.  Think  of  that — a 
Moor  to  be  the  page  of  a  noble  knight.  Oh !  it  is  so  pitiful ! 
I  am  very,  very  sorry  for  poor  Philip." 

Olivia  looked  sorry  too,  but  she  never  lifted  her  head  and 
never  spoke  ;  a  deep  sigh  forced  its  way  from  her  bosom,  and  she 
thought — Oh !  what  dreadful  thoughts  were  hers.  How  she 
would  have  rejoiced  to  take  the  poor  knight  to  her  bosom,  and 
with  her  wealth  to  lift  him  into  pride  above  the  pity  of  the 
wretched  multitude.  Her  thoughts  took  speech  in  tears ;  and 
every  tear  was  wrung  from  a  bleeding  heart.  Little  did  her 
thoughtless  companion  dream  of  the  anguish  which  she  caused  by 
her  wanton,  though  unmeaning  babble.  Unmeaning  though  it  was 
from  her  lips,  it  was  full  of  meaning  in  the  soul  of  the  hearer. 
It  sunk  deep,  and  settled  firmly  there,  to  be  reproduced  by  a 
perpetual  and  unsleeping  memory. 

';  But,  dear  me,  Livy,  how  can  you  be  so  sad  after  all  I  have 
been  telling  you  ?  Don't  you  see  how  every  thing  promises  to 
come  out  well  1  Your  uncle  relents ;  Don  Philip  loves  you ;  you 
love  him ;  there  will  be  nothing  to  prevent  your  marrying  him 
now,  and  your  happiness  is  sure.  Do  you  weep  for  that  1  What 
a  strange,  foolU'k  child,  to  weep  because  she  is  to  be  happy!" 

"  1  shall  never  be  happy,  Leonora.  I  shall  never  marry  Don 
Philip,  or  any  man.  I  shall  go  to  a  convent." 


156  VASCONSELOS. 

"  A  convent !  What !  with  your  face  and  fortune  ?  Now  1 
know  you  are  crazy.  But  you  don't  mean  what  you  say.  Leave 
convents  to  the  ugly  and  the  poor,  to  those  who  have  no  hopes 
and  no  pleasures " 

"  I  have  no  pleasures — no  hopes !" 

"And  why  not?  It's  because  you  won't  have  them,  then.  If 
1  were  you,  I  should  have  nothing  else.  I  should  live  in  hope  all 
the  day,  and  dream  of  pleasures  all  the  night.  The  world  should 
bring  me  nothing  but  love  and  sunshine,  and  every  thought  of 
my  soul  should  be  born  in  the  odor  of  a  thousand  flowers.  And 
why  should  your  happiness  not  be  like  mine — you  who  have  the 
means  to  make  it  so  1  Now  don't  think  to  cheat  me  with  those 
vacant  looks.  This  sadness  is  only  a  sort  of  cloud,  behind  which 
is  the  brightest  moon  of  joy.  The  cloud  will  disappear  with  the 
first  breeze,  and  the  moon  will  shine  out,  bright  and  full  of  hap- 
piness. Wait  a  few  days.  To-morrow  begins  the  sports 
and  the  tourneys.  Oh !  Livy,  such  great  preparations  as  they 
have  made.  Nuno  has  had  the  arrangement  of  everything.  He 
took  me  with  him  yesterday,  to  see  the  lists  and  barriers.  They 
have  raised  them  just  without  the  city,  in  a  natural  amphitheatre 
among  the  hills.  There  is  a  great  enclosure  for  the  bull-fights. 
We  are  to  have  the  most  splendid  bull-fights,  as  brave  as  any 
thing  they  have  in  Spain.  They  brought  in  a  dozen  great  beasts 
yesterday  from  the  mountains — the  finest  animals  in  the  world ; 
all  as  wild  as  tigers.  Several  famous  matadors  have  come  with 
them,  and  we  are  to  have  such  sport.  They  have  raised  high 
scaffolds  for  the  noble  people  and  the  ladies,  and  in  the  centre  is 
one  with  a  canopy  for  the  Adelantado  and  the  Lady  Isabella,  and 
their  immediate  friends ;  we  are  to  sit  with  them,  Livy,  but  on 
lower  seats,  and  nearer  to  the  lists,  so  that  the  gallant  Cavaliers 
can  draw  nigh  to  us,  after  each  passage  of  arms,  and  each  select 
his  Queen  of  Love  and  Beauty.  Won't  that  be  charming  ?  Think 
of  that,  Livy.  I'm  sure  I  know  who  will  be  among  the  most  gal- 
lant knights,  and  I'm  sure  I  know  who  he'll  choose  as  his  Queen 
of  Beauty.  Ah !  but,  Livy,  you  mustn't  put  on  that  sad  and 
solemn  face !  it  will  never  do  in  such  a  scene  as  that ! " 


THE   PRESENTS.  l.)7 

"  I  will  not  be  there,  Leonora." 

"  You  can't  help  yourself.  Your  uncle  will  be  compelled  to 
bring  you.  I  heard  the  Lady  Isabella  herself  say  to  him  that  she 
will  require  you  to  be  of  her  party,  and  he  promised  her  that  he 
would  bring  you.  No!  no!  on  such  an  occasion  nobody  will 
be  allowed  to  stay  away.  In  particular,  what  will  be  said  if  the 
greatest  beauty  and  fortune  in  the  Island  were  not  to  appear  ? 
Every  body  would  say  then,  it  was  because  Don  Balthazar  did 
not  wish  you  to  be  seen — did  not  wish  you  to  be  loved — was  not 
willing  to  give  up  the  guardianship  of  your  treasures.  No  !  ha 
cannot  help  but  bring  you.  He  knows  what  an  outcry  would 
follow  your  absence ;  and  the  blame  would  rest  upon  him.  The 
Adelantado  will  see  to  that." 

Olivia  did  not  answer,  but  she  felt  the  force  of  what  her  gay 
companion  had  spoken.  She  had  already  had  it  signified  to  her 
by  her  uncle,  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  her  presence  had  been 
required  ;  and  she  felt,  perhaps,  that  there  was  no  mode  of  escape 
from  the  necessity.  Possibly  a  lurking  and  natural  curiosity 
might  help  to  reconcile  her  to  the  duty.  Nay,  was  it  a  natural 
reluctance,  that  which  would  forbear  the  sight  of  the  noble  per- 
formances of  the  man  she  loved  ?  Let  her  resolve  as  she  might, 
not  to  marry  him,  there  was  no  need  of  a  resolution  to  refuse  to 
see  him  in  a  public  spectacle  where  he  was  seen  by  thousands 
more.  While  they  yet  spoke  of  this  matter,  a  servant  appeared 
with  a  billet  from  Don  Balthazar,  and  a  case  containing  rich  silks 
and  ribbons.  These  amused  the  curious  eyes  of  Leonora  for  half 
an  hour.  The  note  simply  confirmed  what  had  been  said  by  the 
gay  lady,  touching  the  desires  of  Donna  Isabella.  In  a  short 
space  after,  a  billet  from  that  lady  herself,  conveying  an  expres- 
sion of  the  same  desire,  was  also  brought  her,  accompanied  by  a 
brilliant  necklace  and  cross,  which  she  was  entreated  to  accept, 
and  wear  at  the  tournament.  Olivia  received  them,  but  without 
any  show  of  interest.  Not  so  Leonora,  who  gloated  over  them 
with  a  savage  sort  of  admiration. 

tk  You  are  the  coldest  creature  in  the  world,  Livy.  Positively 
you  have  no  heart.  I  could  weep  over  such  beautiful  presents." 


158  VASCONSELOS. 

"  And  I  too  can  better  weep  than  rejoice  over  them,  Leonora." 

"  What  can  be  the  matter  with  the  child  ?  Livy,  there  is  some- 
thing wrong — it  is  unnatural  that  you  should  show  such  faces  at  such 
a  time — you,  so  young,  so  beautiful,  with  such  a  fortune,  and  with 
such  a  lover — with  every  reason,  too,  for  believing  that  nothing 
can  now  stand  in  the  way  of  your  loves.  Livy,  I  do  think  that 
there  is  something  wrong — something  which  I  cannot  guess." 

For  a  moment  the  gay  young  woman  forgot  all  her  levity,  and 
turning  from  the  rich  dresses  and  the  jewels,  fixed  her  eyes  on  the 
gloomy  features  of  Olivia,  with  such  intense  and  penetrating  cu- 
riosity, that  her  cheeks  flushed  and  her  eyes  fell ;  and  she  stam- 
mered rather  than  spoke — afraid  of  that  suspicious  gaze  : — 

"  No  !  nothing  ;  only  I  am  sick — sick  at  heart,  Leonora.  I  am 
very  foolish  and  weak !  Would  to  Heaven  I  were  dead  !" 

"  Shocking !  was  ever  such  a  foolish  child  !  But  something  is 
the  matter,  and  it  must  be  very  serious  to  make  you  look  and 
speak  so ; — and  I  must  know  it,  Livy.  As  your  friend,  you  must 
tell  me  all.  You  know  how  well  I  can  keep  a  secret.  Come, 
dear,  tell  me  what  it  is  that  troubles  you." 

This  recalled  Olivia  to  herself.  The  very  appeal  to  her  expe- 
rience in  behalf  of  her  friend's  capacity  to  keep  a  secret,  warned 
her  of  the  danger  threatening  her.  She  did  not  philosophize  ex- 
cept through  her  instincts ;  these  sufficiently  taught  her  that  a 
secret,  once  supposed  to  exist,  is  already  half  discovered  ;  and  by 
a  strong  mental  effort,  she  threw  off  her  cloud  for  a  space,  and 
allowed  herself  to  answer  prattle  with  prattle.  She  diverted  her 
friend's  curiosity  from  herself  to  her  garments,  and  in  the  exami- 
nation of  silks,  ribbons  and  jewels,  Leonora  forgot  that  there  were 
any  other  mysteries  in  the  world.  Thus  the  rest' of  the  time  was 
consumed  while  she  remained. 

When  her  gay  visitor  was  gone,  Olivia  sank  into  a  seeming 
stupor  ;  yet  her  thought  was  busy  all  the  while  ;  the  mournful, 
dreary,  ghostly  speculation,  which  aimed  at  nothing,  settled  upon 
nothing,  hoped  for  nothing,  and  feared  everything.  The  day  passed 
thus.  She  was  unconscious  mostly  when  Juana  made  her  appearance 
in  the  apartment,  and  only  roused  herself  to  reply  to  the  salutations 


THE    PRAYER.  159 

of  Sylvia.  Food  was  set  before  her,  but  she  could  not  eat.  Her 
appetite  failed  her  wholly  thus,  for  long  periods,  to  be  roused  at 
periods  into  a  sudden  voracity.  And  she  was  alone — all  alone  ! 
She  felt  her  loneliness,  with  her  other  and  severer  griefs,  and  the  im- 
age of  Philip  de  Vasconselos  only  grew  before  her  imagination 
to  compel  her  tears.  How  tenderly  did  she  think  of  him,  yet 
how  gloomily  !  He  was  at  once  her  hope  and  her  terror.  She 
could  have  died  for  him  with  a  bound  and  cry  of  joy  ;  but  she 
dared  not  resolve  to  live  for  him.  On  the  edge  of  this  al  Sirat 
of  hope  and  delight  she  loitered  long,  but  the  nobler  sentiment 
rose  superior  to  her  love — nay,  let  us  do  her  justice,  rose  out  of 
her  love,  and  had  its  birth  only  in  her  truth  and  fondness.  The  day 
passed  and  found  her  still  resolute  to  deny  him.  "  No  !"  was  still 
the  utterance  of  her  heart  and  will — "  No  !  I  too  much  love  him, 
and  the  nobleness  which  he  loves,  to  dishonor  him  with  hand  of 
mine  !  Oh  !  uncle,  to  what  misery  hast  thou  doomed  the  orphan 
entrusted  to  thy  keeping !" 

While  she  broods,  prostrate  before  the  image  of  the  Blessed 
Mother,  scarce  knowing  where  she  lies — scarce  praying  as 
she  purposes — her  prayers,  perhaps,  more  efficient  from  the 
very  incapacity  of  her  wandering  mind,  to  fix,  connect  and  breathe 
them,  to  the  benign  Being  to  whose  maternal  spirit  she  yet  looks 
for  saving, — let  us  turn  to  the  movements  of  that  cruel  kinsman 
whom  her  condition  loads  with  curses  which  her  lips  do  not 
speak. 

It  was  only  after  a  long  day  of  toil,  public  and  private,  that  he 
returned  to  his  habitation.  He  did  not  seek  his  niece,  who  had 
retired  for  the  night.  He  proceeded  at  once  to  the  apartment 
of  Sylvia.  The  hag  was  prepared  to  meet  him  with  complaints. 

"  You  must  send  that  idle  wench,  Juana,  to  the  hacienda.  She 
must  be  made  to  work  the  ground.  She  is  of  no  service  here. 
I  can  get  nothing  out  of  her.  She  is  continually  absent ;  when 
she  returns,  and  I  scold  her,  she  is  insolent.  She  is  after  mischief. 
These  absences  are  for  no  good.  You  had  best  send  her  awav, 
and  get  one  more  willing  in  her  place." 

At  that  moment  Juana  presented  herself.     Her  first  salutation 


160  VASCONSELOS. 

was  at  the  hands  of  Don  Balthazar,  in  a  blow  from  his  double 
fist,  which  smote  her  to  the  earth.  She  rose  with  the  blood  spirt- 
ing from  her  nostrils. 

"  Hence  !"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  voice  of  thunder  and  a  brutal 
oath.  "  Hence  !  To-morrow  you  go  to  the  country." 

Juana  disappeared — but  not  too  far.  She  waited  at  the  door 
and  listened,  her  nose  dropping  blood  all  the  while.  She  did  not 
observe  it.  She  scarcely  felt  the  pain.  The  blood  of  the  red 
man  in  her  veins  supplied  her  with  one  feeling  only,  and  that 
was  for  the  indignity.  She  listened.  She  reserved  herself  for 
her  own  time ;  but  resolved  that  she  would  not  go  to  the  coun- 
try. We  shall  see. 

Meanwhile,  a  long  conference  followed  between  Don  Balthazar 
and  Sylvia,  in  regard  to  Olivia. 

"  She  eats  nothing  that  I  provide  her.  I  know  not  how  she 
lives." 

"  She  has  supplied  herself  secretly  from  other  sources.  That 
girl » 

"  Impossible !  I  have  watched  her.  She  has  carried  her  noth- 
ing."  ' 

Juana,  as  she  listened,  reproached  herself  that  such  was  the 
case.  She  had  never  thought  of  the  wants  of  her  young  mistress. 
She  now  resolved  to  supply  them  from  her  own  stores.  She 
now  became  more  resolved  than  ever  to  befriend  the  damsel, 
who  suddenly  rose  before  her  eyes  as  an  object  of  sympathizing 
interest.  But  she  did  not  leave  the  door.  She  had  still  other 
things  to  hear. 

"  Here  is  more  of  the  potion !"  said  Don  Balthazar,  giving  the 
phial.  "  To-morrow  I  will  see  that  she  goes  forth.  In  her  ab- 
sence search  her  apartments.  If  you  find  food,  you  know  what 
to  do  with  it." 

This  is  all  that  need  concern  us  of  this  conference.  When 
Don  Balthazar  was  about  to  leave  the  apartment,  his  eye  caught 
sight  of  the  blood  upon  the  floor  which  had  fallen  from  the  nos- 
trils of  Juana. 

"  What  is  this  ?"  he  said,  stooping. 


THE   SECRET   ENTRANCE.  161 

"  Ila !  ha !"  laughed  the  old  woman  as  she  looked  down. 
"  Her  nose  has  caught  it.  Your  hand  is  not  a  light  one,  Senor." 

"  She  shall  find  it  heavier  yet.     But  are  your  sure  ?" 

"  Yes ;  see  here-— drop — drop — drop — even  to  the  door." 

The  old  woman  pointed  out  the  tracks;  but  on  the  outside 
they  found  it  in  a  puddle. 

"  Ha !"  exclaimed  the  Don,  "  the  wench  has  loitered  here. 
She  has  listened  to  all  that  has  been  said.  But  we  must  fix  her 
for  it.  Mix  the  potion  with  her  food,  also.  If  she  shares  it  with 
Olivia,  well !  our  end  is  answered.  That  is  the  secret.  Olivia  has 
bribed  her.  She  supplies  her  with  food,  so  that  the  girl  can  well 
reject  her  own.  Now  we  have  her.  But  take  all  precautions ; 
and  when  she  goes  forth  to-morrow,  search  her  chamber.  Mean- 
while, do  you  go  to  the  room  of  Juana  and  see  what  she  is  about. 
Put  on  a  gentle  manner  with  her.  Beguile  her.  Do  not  spare 
your  reproaches  of  my  violence.  I  will  go  to  the  chamber  of 
Olivia,  and  see  in  like  manner  after  her." 

The  old  woman  threw  off  her  slippers  and  softly  stole  to  the 
room  of  Juana.  Don  Balthazar  waited  awhile,  and  then  followed 
slowly,  on  his  way  to  the  apartment  of  his  niece,  which  was  be- 
yond it.  When  he  drew  nigh,  he  found  Sylvia  emerging  from 
Juana's  chamber. 

"  She  is  not  there,"  said  she  in  a  whisper. 

"  Ha !  she  is  then  here  !"  He  pointed  to  Olivia's  door.  "  Go 
down  and  wait."  He  spoke  in  a  whisper  also.  The  old  woman 
disappeared.  Don  Balthazar  tried  the  door  gently — it  was  locked 
within.  f  He  drew  a  steel  probe  from  his  pocket,  stooped,  and 
touched  a  secret  spring  in  the  panel.  It  silently  unclosed;  and 
crouching  nearly  to  the  floor,  he  succeeded,  without  noise,  in  en- 
tering the  apartment.  A  dim  light  burned  upon  a  table.  The 
uncle  looked  up,  and  was  confounded  to  see  his  niece  seated,  her 
eyes  quietly  beholding  all  his  movements.  Don  Balthazar  felt 
all  the  shame  and  meanness  of  his  proceeding,  in  the  unexpected 
discovery.  Seared,  reckless,  indurated  as  he  was,  he  could  not 
suppress  the  sudden  flush  that  overspread  his  cheeks,  nor  conceal 
the  confusion  which  paralyzed  his  movement  and  for  a  moment 


1G2  VASCONSELOS. 

arrested  his  speech.  The  face  of  Olivia  declared  her  equal  scorn 
and  loathing.  She  never  rose,  but  looking  on  him.  with  pitiless 
composure,  she  exclaimed, — 

"  This,  then.,  is  the  noble  process  for  accomplishing  my  de- 
struction ! — worthy  of  a  noble  knight — thrice  worthy  a  Castilian 
gentleman — and  altogether  becoming  a  guardian  and  a  kinsman !" 

The  uncle  rose,  recovering  himself,  with  the  erect  position. 

"  Thy  destruction,  girl !  What  dost  thou  mean  1  Dost  thou 
think  I  come  to  murder  thee  ?" 

"  And  what  else  should  I  think,  when  thou  comest  in  such 
fashion,  at  such  an  hour,  and  through  an  avenue  which  is  secret 
to  thyself  ?  Why  shouldst  thou  not  murder  me  1  and  why,  if 
such  be  not  thy  object,  shouldst  thou  thus  visit  my  place  of  sleep- 
ing ?  But  thou  well  knowest  I  meant  not  that !  Thou  know'st 
that, — thanks  to  thy  other  means  of  destruction  !  I  have  now  no 
fear  of  any  hurt  thou  canst  do  to  this  poor  life.  Wert  thou  capa- 
ble of  a  noble  charity,  1  would  entreat  of  thee  to  end  it — to  take 
thy  dagger  from  thy  girdle,  and  here,  with  no  witness  but  the 
Holy  Virgin,  and  that  Heaven  who  will  at  last  avenge  my  cause, 
strike  me  to  the  heart,  and  close  the  eyes  which  now  see  nothing 
but  mine  own  shame." 

"  Olivia,  thou  art  quite  too  passionate  and  wild !" 

"  Am  I  then,  with  the  sight  of  thee,  at  this  hour,  knowing  what 
thou  art,  knowing  what  terrible  wrongs  thou  hast  done  to  me,  and 
seeing,  for  the  first  time,  one  of  the  secret  modes  by  which  thou 
hast  destroyed  the  very  life  of  my  life, — my  hope,  my  soul,  for- 
ever !" 

"  Poh !  Poh !  How  thou  relatest  these  matters.  I  tell  thee, 
were  it  not  for  thy  own  thoughts  and  fancies,  thou  hast  suffered  no 
wrong,  no  hurt, — nothing  which  should  keep  thee  from  being  as 
gay  as  the  gayest,  and  as  happy  as  the  best.  Look  at  thy  friend, 
Leonora  de  Tobar " 

"Speak  to  me  nothing  of  her!  Were  it  even  as  thou  sayest, 
that  my  grief  and  shame  are  only  in  mine  own  thoughts  and  fan- 
cies, is  it  not  the  most  terrible  of  wrongs  that  thou  hast  planted 
them  there,  so  that  their  dreadful  forms  and  images  keep  me  from 


A  BOOTLESS   ERRAND.  163 

joy  by  day,  and  haunt  my  sleep  by  night  with  worse  terrors  than 
the  grave  !  But,  enough !  Wilt  thou  not  leave  me  to-night  in 
peace — with  such  peace  as  thy  crime  may  permit  to  a  hopeless 
penitent  V 

"  Is  no  one  with  thee  here  1     I  look  for  the  girl,  Juana  1" 

"  Did  search  of  her  bring  thee  hither  ?  There  is  no  one  with 
us  but  the  Virgin  Mother,  and  the  Saints  who  have  pity  on  the 
orphan.  Hence,  and  leave  me." 

"  One  thing  more  before  I  depart.  The  Lady  Isabella  has  com- 
missioned me  to  entreat  thee  to  come  to  her  to-morrow.  She 
wants  thy  help  and  taste  in  certain  draperies.  I  have  promised 
that  thou  wilt  attend  her." 

"  And  what  if  I  say  I  will  not  ?  What  am  I,  with  the  con- 
sciousness which  I  carry  with  me,  that  I  should  dare  look  in  the 
face  of  such  pure  and  noble  person  !  But  go — leave  me.  I  will 
attend  the  Lady  Isabella." 

"  'Tis  well ! — Thou  hast  not  seen  Juana  1  She  ha^h  not  been 
with  thee  ?" 

"  She  is  thy  creature — one  who  hath  helped  for  my  destruction. 
What  should  I  do  with  her?  I  loathe  the  sight  of  all  who  belong 
to  thee !" 

The  Don,  now  thoroughly  savage,  replied — 

"I  go!  But,  mark  me,  girl,  thou  wilt  one  day  so  enrage  me 
with  thy  insolence  that  1  shall  make  thee  tremble  with  such  a  terror 
as  thou  dost  not  dream  of." 

"  Be  it  what  thou  wilt  of  violence,  only  let  it  not  be  shame 
and  there  shall  be  no  tremors." 

"  We  shall  see !     Open  the  door.     I  will  leave  thee." 

"  Depart  as  thou  cam'st !"  she  replied,  rising  and  taking  the 
key  from  the  lock,  while  for  a  moment  the  scorn  upon  her  lips 
was  lightened  by  a  bitter  smile.  He  looked  furiously  upon  her, 
and  made  a  step  towards  her,  as  if  bent  to  wrest  the  key  from 
her  grasp;  but  a  more  cautious  mood  prevailed  with  him,  and 
with  anger  that  increased  the  awkwardness  of  his  method  of  de- 
parture, full  under  her  eyes  the  while,  he  scrambled  through  the 
panel,  which  instantly  closed  after  him.  Olivia  hastily  seized  the 


164  VASCONSELOS. 

light,  and  proceeded  to  examine  it ;  but  the  secret  spring  was  too 
well  adjusted  not  to  elude  her  search. 

full  of  anger,  and  with  a  fierce  oath  upon  his  lips,  Don  Bal- 
thazar rejoined  the  old  woman,  his  creature  and  confederate, 
below. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "  hast  thou  found  the  wench,  Juana  ?" 

"  She  is  gone.     She  is  not  within  the  house !" 

"  She  shall  taste  the  Calabozo  to-morrow.  See  to  what  I  have 
told  thee  when  the  Sefiorita  goes  forth,  and  make  the  search 
thorough.  She  hath  concealments  of  which  you  know  not.  Do 
thv  duty  well,  Sylvia,  in  this  business,  if  thou  wouldst  be  sure 
of  my  favor.  In  particular,  do  thou  observe  the  outgoings  of  this 
wench,  Juana.  She  hath  questionless  been  bribed  by  her  lady. 
See  to  her  !" 

Juana,  meanwhile,  was  hidden  in  the  groves  with  a  companion. 
In  the  shadow  of  the  great  orange  trees  the  features  of  neither 
were  discernible ;  but  he  was  a  man,  huge  of  size  and  bold  of 
speech.  He  treated  her  as  if  she  were  a  child ;  but  tenderly,  as 
if  he  were  her  father. 

"Never  you  mind,"  said  he,  at  parting  with  her;  "  the  goods 
shall  be  had,  and  the  blood  shall  be  paid  for !  Only  a  little  while. 
To  keep  from  the  meat  awhile,  is  to  strengthen  the  stomach.  It 
is  a  strong  man  only  who  can  wait.  He  drinks  long  who  drinks 
slowly.  Swallow  thy  tears,  lest  they  blind  thee.  To-morrow  is 
better  for  work  than  yesterday  ;  and  a  good  appetite  better  than 
a  bad  digestion.  Take  thy  sleep  now,  my  child,  that  thou  may'st 
wake  with  both  thine  eyes  open." 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

"It  is  not  safe 
To  tempt  such  spirits,  and  let  them  wear  their  swords." 

BEAUMONT  AND  Fun  CBKR. 

IT  is  necessary  that  we  should  now  take  cognizance  of  other 
parties  to  this  true  history,  whom  we  have  suffered  too  long  to 
remain  in  the  back-ground.  Our  view  is  somewhat  retrospective, 
the  scene  we  are  now  about  to  depict  having  been  sketched 
prior  to  the  scenes  which  have  occupied  the  two  preceding  chap- 
ters. Let  us  return  to  the  well-known  lodge  of  the  young  knights 
of  Portugal,  and  see  what  are,  if  any,  the  changes  which  have 
occurred  in  the  awkward  relations  which  existed  between  them, 
the  fruit  of  eager  passions,  and,  unhappily,  misplaced  affections. 

Several  days  have  passed  since  the  interview  already  described, 
in  which  they  were  the  sole  and  angry  actors.  Though  the  scene 
on  that  occasion  had  terminated,  if  not  amicably,  at  least  quietly, 
yet  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  with  great  sorrow,  perceived,  on  the 
/eturn  of  his  brother  to  the  cabin  which  they  occupied  in  com- 
mon, that  he  had  relapsed  again  into  his  condition  of  moodiness — 
a  condition  which  did  not  always  forbear  rudeness.  The  elder  broth- 
er, from  long  experience,  well  understood  and  dreaded  the  jealous, 
suspicious,  and  resentful  spirit  of  the  young  man,  which  his  im- 
petuous passions  were  too  often  disposed  to  infuse  with  violence. 
He  had  striven,  though  without  much  good  result,  to  soothe  the 
evil  spirit  in  the  mood  of  Andres,  and  to  mollify  the  disappoint- 
ment which  the  latter  still  keenly  felt  in  regard  to  his  rejection 
by  Olivia.  It  was  under  this  desire  that  Philip  had,  in  the  mean- 
while, forborne,  however  anxious,  to  visit  the  woman  whom  ha 
loved  quite  as  passionately,  though  with  more  generosity  and 
prudence,  than  his  brother.  He  made  no  allusions  to  her  in  his 

(165) 


166  VASCONSELOS. 

intercourse  with  Andres,  and  was  studious  so  to  select  the  sub- 
jects of  his  conversation,  as  by  no  possibility  to  prompt  the 
mind  of  the  youth  to  turn  in  the  direction  in  which  his  heart  had 
suffered  hurt.  But  Andres  exhibited  no  sense  of  this  prudence 
and  forbearance.  He  was  one  of  those  wilful  and  wrong-headed, 
but  otherwise  noble  and  generous  spirits,  who  prefer,  under  dis- 
appointment, to  suffer  and  complain  ;  who,  of  themselves,  irritate 
the  sore  places  which  they  feel,  and  steadily  tear  away  the  plas- 
ter with  which  the  physician  would  cure  all  their  ailments.  It 
was  in  despair  of  saying  or  doing  anything  which  could  be  ac- 
ceptable to  his  brother's  mood,  that  Philip  de  Vasconselos  finally 
forbore  the  effort.  For  the  last  two  days,  therefore,  an  ominous 
silence  had  prevailed  in  their  cottage  when  they  met.  Nothing 
was  spoken  which  either  might  well  avoid ;  and  Philip  felt  with 
sorrow,  that  the  chasm  between  them  was  hourly  growing  greater 
in  depth  and  width.  But  he  felt  with  still  greater  sorrow  that 
nothing  could  then  be  done  to  arrest  its  increase.  It  was  to  time 
only,  that  great  corrector,  that  the  matter  could  be  left. 

But  time  was  not  allowed  them.  The  tournament  approached, 
with  all  its  excitements,  appealing  equally  to  their  pride,  their 
renown,  and  the  somewhat  peculiar  position  in  which  they  stood 
in  regard  to  the  Castilian  chivalry.  Both  of  them,  accordingly, 
might  be  seen,  a  few  days  before  the  event,  busily  engaged  bur- 
nishing and  preparing  their  armor.  It  had  already  been  remark- 
ed, as  discreditable  to  the  Spanish  knights,  that  their  Portuguese 
auxiliaries  were  better  armed,  in  a  simpler  and  nobler  style,  and 
kept  their  mail  and  weapons  under  better  polish  than  the  former. 
De  Soto  himself  had  been  compelled  to  refer  to  these  knights  in 
compliment  on  this  account,  and  to  urge  their  example,  in  order 
to  prompt  his  Spanish  cavaliers  to  get  themselves  serviceable 
armor,  and  to  keep  it  in  order.  They  were  better  pleased  to 
show  themselves  in  gewgaws  and  gilt  than  in  the  substantial 
coverings  which  were  essential  to  warfare.  One  of  the  histori- 
ans of  this  expedition  thus  contrasts  the  appearance  of  the  knights 
of  the  two  nations :  "  And  he  (the  Adelantado)  commanded  a 
muster  to  be  made,  at  the  which  the  Portugales  shewed  them- 


THE   SPANIARDS   AND   PORTUGUESE.  167 

selves  armed  in  verie  bright  armor,  and  the  Castellans  very  gal- 
lant, with  silke  upon  silke,  with  many  pinkings  and  cuts.  The 
Governour,  because  these  braveries,  in  such  an  action,  did  not  like 
him,  commanded  that  they  should  muster  another  day,  and  [that] 
every  one  should  come  forthe  with  his  armor :  at  the  which  the  Por- 
tugales  came,  as  at  the  first,  armed  with  very  good  armor.  .  .  .  The 
Castellans,  for  the  most  part,  did  weare  very  bad  and  rustie  shirts 
of  maile,  and  all  of  them  head-pieces  and  steele  caps,  and  verrie 
bad  lances."  The  contrast  mortified  De  Soto.  In  order  to  rebuke 
his  Castilians  into  an  einulation  of  the  Portuguese.,  he  distinguished 
the  latter  (perhaps  unwisely)  with  unusual  favors  at  the  first, 
and  appointed  them  places  near  his  own  person.  This  was  the 
original  source  of  that  jealousy  and  hostility  with  which  the 
Spaniards  encountered  the  farther  progress  into  favor  of  the  Por- 
tuguese brothers.  It  showed  itself  so  decidedly,  and  with  marks 
of  such  serious  discontent,  that  the  Adelantado  committed  the 
further  error  of  passing  to  the  opposite  extreme,  and  putting  on 
such  a  cold  aspect  to  our- ad  venturers,  as  to  forfeit  in  great  de- 
gree their  attachment  to  his  cause  and  person,  besides  expos- 
ing them  to  the  neglect  and  contempt  of  those  who  naturally 
take  their  cue  from  their  superiors.  We  have  not  thought  it 
necessary  to  detail  any  instances  of  the  unfriendly  or  insolent 
treatment  to  which  they  were  subject,  but  have  satisfied  our- 
selves with  showing  what  has  been  the  result  of  it  upon  their 
minds.  Enough  to  mention  that,  in  their  own  skill  and  spirit, 
their  ability  in  the  use  of  their  weapon,  and  their  promptness 
to  resort  to  it,  they  found  thus  far  a  sufficient  security  against 
any  outrageous  contempts,  while  the  friendship  of  a  few  of  the 
Castilian  knights,  such  as  Nuno  de  Tobar,  reconciled  them  in 
some  degree  to  endure  the  slights  and  indifference  of  the  rest. 
But  the  consequence  of  this  false  position  in  the  Castilian  army 
was  to  excite  their  national  as  well  as  individual  pride ;  to  make 
them  resolve  upon  achievement ;  to  keep  their  armor  bright  on 
all  occasions ;  to  be  always  ready  for  service  with  their  weapons, 
and  to  pluck  the  chaplet,  on  all  occasions,  from  the  helms  of  their 
boasting  rivals.  But  their  personal  griefs  were  perhaps  not 


168  VASCONSELOS. 

necessary  as  incentives  to  performance,  in  the  case  of  knights 
with  whom  chivalry  still  prevailed  with  all  the  force  of  a 
passion. 

Our  brothers  pursued  their  task  in  silence.  Occupying  the 
same  dwelling,  and  with  but  little  space  in  their  somewhat  nar- 
row limits  for  any  performance  unseen  by  either,  this  silence 
was  an  irksome  one.  The  elder  brother  had  made  repeated 
efforts  to  break  through  the  icy  reserve  which  prevailed  in  the 
demeanor  of  the  younger  from  that  fatal  night,  the  events  of 
which  have  already  been  described.  On  that  night,  after  their 
passionate  interview,  Andres  de  Vasconselos  had  returned  from 
his  lonely  and  gloomy  wanderings,  in  no  way  improved  for  com- 
panionship. His  affections  were  more  stubbornly  congealed 
than  ever ;  his  passions,  if  less  explosive,  not  a  whit  more  sub- 
dued or  placable.  A  sullen  rigidnoss  was  conspicuous  in  all  his 
features ;  a  gloomy  inflexibility  in  his  mood  ;  a  hostile  reserve 
in  his  actions  and  deportment.  This  continued,  increased  hour- 
ly by  the  reports  of  the  city,  touching  the  supposed  superior 
good  fortune  of  his  brother  in  respect  to  the  affections  of  the 
lady  of  their  mutual  love.  The  kind  words  addressed  to  him 
by  Philip  were  answered  only  in  monosyllables,  which  were 
sometimes  more  than  cold,  and  accompanied  by  looks  which 
the  truly  warm  feelings  of  the  elder  brother  regarded  as  little 
less  than  savage.  A  becoming  pity  and  sympathy,  however, 
led  him  to  be  indulgent  to  a  nature  which,  naturally  passionate, 
was  now  suffering  the  stings  of  a  peculiar  provocation.  Besides, 
was  not  Andres  the  last  born,  and  the  favorite,  of  a  mother  who 
was  tenderly  beloved  by  both  I  Philip  did  not  forbear  his  ef- 
forts, because  they  were  received  with  indifference.  He  felt  that 
the  moment  was  one  which  might  form  the  tnrning  point,  the 
pivot,  of  a  sad  and  serious  future.  The  chasm  left  unclosed  in 
season  must  only  widen  with  time.  The  affections  suffered  to 
remain  ruptured,  or  hurt,  would  only  become  callous  from  the 
lack  of  proper  tendance,  a  gentle  solicitude,  a  heedful  care, 
the  patient  sweetness  of  a  loving  watch,  which,  never  obtrusive, 


A   SUMMER  EVENING.  169 

never  suffered  the  proper  moment  of  consolation  to  be  lost. 
Such  was  the  spirit  with  which  Philip  de  Vasconselos  regarded 
his  wayward  brother. 

It  was  two  days  yet  to  the  opening  scenes  of  the  tourney,  the 
beginning  of  which  we  have  already  seen.  The  day  was  at  its 
close ;  a  day  all  flushed  with  beauty,  and  sweet  with  the  warm 
breathings  of  the  budding  summer.  The  sun  was  at  his  setting. 
His  not  ungrateful  rays  fell  pleasantly  gay  upon  the  green  slope 
which  led  to  the  slight  bohio,  or  cottage,  made  of  poles  and  reeds, 
thatched  with  straw,  which  the  brothers  occupied.  Soft  flicker- 
ing folds  and  remnants  of  purple,  that  seemed  momently  rolling 
themselves  up,  and  disappearing  with  the  breeze,  only  to  re-ap- 
pear and  spread  themselves  out  in  increasing  brightness,  on  higher 
slopes  of  hill,  won,  at  the  same  moment,  the  silent  fancies  of  the 
brothers.  The  hills  were  fringed  with  faint  red  tints  that  glori- 
fied them  as  with  heavenly  halos ;  the  woods,  flushed  with  the 
mingled  drapery  of  spring  and  summer,  lay  gently  waving  in  the 
breeze  of  evening,  rocked  in  the  arms  of  beauty,  and  canopied 
with  the  smiles  of  heaven.  It  was  one  of  those  delicious  mo- 
ments when  the  world  without  passes  with  all  its  sweetness 
into  the  heart,  and  takes  the  whole  soul  into  its  embrace  of  love. 
The  brothers,  as  by  a  common  instinct,  threw  aside  their  toils, 
and  cast  themselves  down  upon  the  hill-slope,  their  eyes  ranging 
over  the  blessed  prospect.  Their  shields,  of  bright  blue  steel, 
spotless,  and  shining  like  mirrors  in  the  sun,  reflected  back  the 
mellow  softness  of  his  beams.  They  hung  upon  the  upright  poles 
without  the  cottage,  on  each  side  of  the  entrance,  to. which  they 
furnished  a  rich  and  befitting  decoration.  Their  long  lances,  of 
well-sounded  and  seasoned  ash,  headed  with  broad  shafts  of  bright 
steel,  that  shone  like  silver  in  the  sun,  were  leaned  against  the 
wall  of  the  dwelling,  and  also  without  the  entrance.  The  page 
of  Andres,  a  gay  boy  of  fourteen,  had  just  made  his  obeisance, 
and  taken  his  departure,  under  instructions  from  his  master;  and 
for  a  moment,  the  two  brothers,  reposing  from  their  toils  of  the 
day,  seemed  disposed  to  snatch  a  respite,  in  the  sweet  calm  which 
had  descended  upon  all  nature  in  the  grateful  approach  of  eve- 
8 


170  VASCONSELOS. 

ning.  Andres  lay  at  length  beneath  the  slender  shadows  of  a 
palm,  which,  at  an  earlier  hour,  could  have  yielded  no  shelter, — 
none  was  needed  now.  His  eyes  were  shrouded  by  his  arm, 
which  was  carelessly  thrown  across  his  brows.  While  in  this 
attitude,  Philip  rose  suddenly  from  where  he  lay,  and  moved  by 
a  brotherly  impulse,  approached  him  and  threw  himself  quietly 
by  his  side. 

"Andres,  my  brother,"  was  the  affectionate  salutation  of  the 
elder,  "  it  is  naturally  expected  that  we  shall  both  do  our  devoir 
in  the  approaching  tourney.  It  is  due  to  our  reputation,  as  good 
knights,  and  particularly  to  our  position  among  these  gentlemen 
of  Castile,  who  would  not  be  slow  to  remark  upon  any  unwil- 
lingness which  we  might  betray  in  entering  the  lists.  They  will 
do  their  best,  and  we  must  do  ours.  That  we  can  maintain  our 
own,  and  the  honor  of  our  country,  in  a  passage-at-arms,  whether 
with  lance,  sword,  or  battle-axe,  with  any  of  these  cavaliers,  I 
nothing  question;  though  there  be  knights  among  them,  many 
who,  like  Nuno  de  Tobar,  will  honor,  by  their  prowess,  those  who 
may  strive  against  them.  These  will  afford  us  sufficient  exercise 
and  honor.  It  needs  not,  my  brother,  that  we  should  cross  wea- 
pon with  each  other." 

A  grim  smile  passed  over  the  features  of  Andres,  as  he  with- 
drew his  arm  from  above  his  eyes.  The  expression  was  an  un- 
pleasant one  to  Philip.  A  brief  pause  ensued.  At  length  the. 
younger  replied: 

"Verily,  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  it  were  not  wise  to  suffer 
these  knights  of  Castile  to  suppose  thee  unwilling  to  cross  wea- 
pons with  any  warrior,  even  though  he  were  of  thy  own  blood 
and  nation.  Such  reluctance,  in  the  minds  of  persons  sworn  to 
cavil,  might  be  construed  into  doubt  of  thy  own  capacity  anJ 
prowess." 

"  I  fear  not,  Andres,"  replied  the  other,  calmly,  :'  that  any  idk 
judgment  of  these  or  any  cavaliers  will  do  injustice  to  my  re- 
putation, since  it  will  be  easy,  at  any  moment,  particularly  as  1 
snail  never  be  unwilling,  to  satisfy  any  doubting  opponent,  and  to 
silence  any  unfriendly  one.  But  no  man  will  venture  to  thiuk 


BROTHERLY  ADVICE.  171 

that  any  feeling  but  that  of  a  natural  attachment  between  kins- 
men hath  kept  us  from  a  trial  of  skill  and  prowess,  which,  though 
it  be  but  the  mimicry  of  strife,  is  yet  too  nearly  like  it,  and  is 
but  too  frequently  apt  to  occasion  the  reality,  not  to  plead  against 
our  indulgence,  adversely,  in  the  exercise.  It  is  not,  however, 
what  the  world  without  may  think,  my  brother,  but  what  we  feel 
within,  which  should  control  our  wishes  in  this  matter.  It  is 
enough  for  me  that,  even  in  sport,  I  love  not  to  confront  with 
weapon  the  bosom  of  a  brother  who  is  so  very  dear  to  mine." 

"  Brother,  mine,  I  do  not  quite  understand  these  refinements. 
We  have  crossed  weapons  in  the  tourney  a  thousand  times  ere 
this,  in  our  early  exercises, — nay,  in  the  very  training  which  thou 
hast  given  me,  and  which,  as  a  grateful  pupil," — this  was  spoken 
with  a  smile  by  no  means  pleasing  in  the  eyes  of  Philip, — "I  am 
only  too  glad  to  have  received  at  thy  hands.  What  is  there  now 
to  make  the  difference  ?" 

"Ask  thy  own  heart,  Andres,"  replied  the  other,  sadly.  "Art 
thou  the  same  person  that  thou  wast,  when,  without  a  care  or 
thought  but  of  the  art  which  thou  hadst  in  thy  desire,  thou  took'st 
thy  first  lessons  from  my  lance  ?  Since  that  day  thou  hast 
mingled,  for  thyself,  in  the  press  of  knights;  thou  hast  shared 
the  eager  fury  of  the  battle ;  thou  hast  won  for  thyself  a  name 
which  thou  must  maintain,  at  all  perils,  to  thyself  and  others. 
But  thou  hast  other  feelings,  fears  and  hopes  than  those  which 
possessed  thee  when  a  boy ;  thou  hast  grown  a  man  of  cares ; 
and,  I  grieve  to  think  it,  my  brother,  thou  no  longer  look'st  upon 
me,  thy  Philip,  as  the  loving  friend  from  whom  came  thy  first 
lessons  in  arts  and  arms.  These  make  it  prudent  and  proper 
that  we  should  not  strive  against  each  other.  The  accidents  of 
the  tourney  are,  of  themselves,  sufficient  to  keep  our  arms  asun- 
der. Men  have  been  slain,  unwittingly  by  their  rival  knights, 
through  false  footing  of  their  horse ;  through  frailty  and  fault  in 
:arm ;  through  haste;  through  indiscretion,  and  those  nameless 
providences  of  the  conflict,  of  which  no  man  can  well  account,  as 
no  wisdom  can  foresee.  But  chiefly  do  I  desire  that  we  should 
not  find  our  weapons  crossed,  inasmuch  as  I  perceive  in  thee,  ray 


172  VASCONSELOS. 

brother,  a  decline  of  that  trust  in  me — that  love,  which,  of  old, 
made  it  pleasant  to  me  to  teach  thy  inexperience." 

"  I  am  no  longer  inexperienced,  Philip  de  Vasconselos.  I  no 
longer  need  thy  teaching,  or  that  of  any  man !  Thou  talk'st  of 
accidents  from  weakness,  and  defect  of  armor.  Never  better 
armor  than  mine,  as  thou  knowest,  came  from  the  forge  of  the 
Milanese.  It  had  its  fashion  from  the  same  hands  with  thine,  and 
is,  I  warrant  me,  as  free  from  frailty.  My  lance  is  under  thine 
eye.  The  sword  which  I  carry  has  been  a  thousand  times  within 
thy  grasp.  Thou  canst  tell  the  weight  of  my  battle-axe,  and 
knowest  the  value -of  its  tempered  metal  as  certainly  as  thou  dost 
thine  own.  What  remains  ?  Methinks,  my  brother,  there  is  no 
such  difference  between  the  strength  and  size  of  my  body  and  of 
thine.  Take  the  muscle  of  this  arm  within  thy  grasp.  Doth  it  show 
to  thee  a  feebleness  which  should  make  it  shrink  from  any  strug- 
gle with  any  cavalier,  even  though  he  be  of  redoubtable  prowess, 
like  thyself?  Thou  speak'st  of  what  is  in  my  heart ; — of  a  change 
in  my  feelings  towards  thee ! — it  may  be  there  is  such  a  change ! 
Verily,  I  see  nothing  in  my  fortunes  or  in  thine,  Philip  de  Vas- 
conselos, which  should  make  me  regard  thee  with  feelings  such  as 
we  bore  to  one  another,  when  thou  stood'st  not  in  the  way  of  my 
hopes,  and  hadst  not  yet  shrouded  my  heart,  in  the  overwhelm- 
ing shadow  of  thy  greater  fame !  I  reproach  thee  not,  that  such 
has  been  thy  fortune  ;  but  verily,  it  is  no  longer  seasonable  with 
thee,  to  discourse  to  me  of  the  love  of  kinsmen ;  and  1  tell  thee 
more,  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  thou  hast  but  too  much  the  habit  of 
speaking  to  me  as  if  I  were  still  the  boy,  untaught,  and  only  now 
receiving  from  thee,  for  the  first  time,  his  infant  lessons  in  the  use 
of  blunt  spear  and  shielded  weapon." 

"  And  is  it  thus,  my  brother  ?"  was  the  mournful  answer  of 
Philip  de  Vasconselos. 

'•  But  I  will  not  upbraid  thee :  and  yet  I  will  not  forbear  to  en- 
treat thee.  The  feeling  which  thou  showest  is  most  certainly 
enough  to  make  me  unwilling  to  encounter  with  thee  in  this  tour- 
ney. Were  it  possible,  without  shame  and  discredit,  to  refuse  to 
take  lance  in  these  gay  passages,  I  should  most  surely  withdraw 


PHILIP'S  ANTICIPATIONS.  173 

myself  from  the  field.  But  I  am  pledged  to  the  encounter ;  with 
lance,  sword,  and  battle-axe,  three  strokes  of  each;  with  Luis  de 
Moscoso,  with  Balthazar  de  Galiegos,  with  Nuno  de  Tobar  ;  and 
it  may  be  with  others,  whom  I  now  recall  not." 

"Thou  canst  not  well  escape  thy  devoir,"  said  Andres,  with  a 
sneering  smile. 

"  Nor,  save  on  thy  account,"  replied  the  other  "  would  I 
desire  to  do  so.  But  there  is  that  within  my  bosom,  Andres, 
whatever  may  inhabit  in  thine,  which  makes  me  shrink  from 
the  thought  that  we  shall  cross  lances  in  the  meUe.  I  know 
not  that  thou  designest  such  a  conflict;  but  I  know  thy  ambition — 
thy  pride — and  I  fear  that  evil  spirit  which  sometimes  possesses 
thee,  making  thce  blind  to  thy  better  feelings,  and  to  the  claims  of 
those  about  thee,  and  which,  I  grieve  to  say  it,  has  but  too  fre- 
quently shown  itself  in  thy  moods  of  late.  Brother,  hearken  to 
me  ; — I  pray  thee  let  us  not  meet !  Thou  wilt  find  many  noble 
knights  to  conquer,  who  will  do  thee  honor.  There  will  be  no 
lack  of  the  fit  antagonist,  even  though  Hernan  de  Soto  himself 
shall  take  the  field.  -  Let  us  do  nothing  which  may  perchance 
lessen  or  change  that  love  which  our  mother  gave  us,  and  which 
should  be  dear  to  us,  because  of  her,  as  because  of  ourselves." 

"It  is  on  my  account — for  me — that  thou  wouldst  avoid  the 
encounter  with  me!"  replied  the  younger  brother.  "Verily, 
Philip,  thou  hast  betrayed  thy  modesty.  Is  it  so  sure  that  my 
lance  must  fail  when  it  crosses  thine? — is  thy  arm " 

"  Nay,  brother,  why  thus  wilt  thou  mistake  my  purpose  ? — 
thus  cruelly  outrage  my  affections  1  I  do  not  reproach  thv 
prowess  when  I  tell  thee  that  it  is  on  thy  account,  wholly,  that  I 
would  avoid  this  encounter.  I  fear  that  thou  wilt  wrong  thyself; 
— that  thou  wilt  show  a  spirit  in  the  field,  which  would  not  well 
become  a  brother ; — that  thy  pride,  wrought  upon  by  sudden  pas- 
sions— by  unjust  suspicions — by  unwise  jealousies,  will  lead  thee 
into  deeds  of  unmeasured  violence,  such  as " 

"  Such  as  thou  fearest,  eh1?"  was  the  mocking  interruption. 

The  other  answered  proudly— his  tones  growing  instantly  colder, 


174  VASCOXSELOS. 

calmer,  and  with  a  slower  enunciation,  while  his  eye  flashed 
with  a  sudden  fire,  entirely  different  from  its  recent  expression. 

"I  fear  nothing,  Andres  de  Vasconselos,  as  thou  of  all  persons 
should  by  this  time  know ; — nothing  but  shame,  dishonor,  and 
the  reproach  of  knighthood ; — nothing  but  a  wrong  done  to  our 
mother's  fondness — and  that  wrong  which  thy  evil  mood  seems 
resolute  to  do  to  our  own.  To  escape  this,  I  would  have  implored 
thee  to  forbearance ;  for  I  know  thy  temper  in  the  conflict,  and  I 
somewhat  dread  my  own !  Unhappily,  we  share,  in  some  degree, 
the  passions  of  one  another.  Thus  it  is  that  we  have  both  loved, 
where  both  may  be  luckless " 

"  No !  no  !"  exclaimed  the  other  bitterly.  Philip  did  not  re- 
gard the  interruption. 

"With  our  mutual  passions  roused — our  pride  endangered  in  the 
field's  regard,  I  dread  the  struggle  that  would  follow  :  for,  at  such 
moments,  Andres  de  Vasconselos,  I  cannot  easily  distinguish  the 
kinsman  from  the  foe!  Love,  pity,  the  ties  of  affection,  and 
friendship,  are  all  obscured  in  the  wild  passion  when  the  blood 
rules  triumphant  in  the  brain,  and  I  should  bear  thee  down,  my 
brother,  as  unsparingly  as  the  least  regarded  among  the  ranks  of 
all  this  Castihan  chivalry." 

"  By  the  Blessed  Virgin,  thou  speakest,  Don  Philip,  as  if  I 
were  already  beneath  thy  spear " 

"  Forgive  me,  brother,  that  I  have  done  so  !  The  Saints  fore- 
fend  that  lance  of  mine  should  ever  threaten  thee  in  any  conflict ! 
I  but " 

"  And  I  tell  thee,  Don  Philip,  I  no  more  reck  of  thy  lance, 
than  I  do  of  that  of  the  least  famous  of  all  these  Castilian  cavaliers ! 
1  know  not  of  any  prowess  in  thee  that  I  have  need  to  fear  ;  and  I 
promise  thee,  should  it  ever  hap  that  our  weapons  be  crossed, 
then  look  to  do  thy  best,  or  I  put  thy  boasted  skill  to  shame." 

"  I  boast  no  skill,  brother !" 

"Thou  dost — thou  art  all  a  boast !  What  else  is  it  when  thou 
warn'st  me  that  in  the  strife  thou  wilt  be  pitiless  —that  tluu  wilt 
suffer  no  thought  of  kindred  to  disarm  thee  1  Is  it  not  as  much 


THE   SUNSET.  175 

as  if  thy  victory  were  already  sure,  and  thou  hadst  me  trampled 
uinlrr  thy  feet?" 

"  1  have  been  in  fault,  brother ;  verily,  I  confess  it.  It  is  not  for 
me  to  boast ;  and  still  less  to  seem  to  boast  of  advantage  over 
tliee.  Believe  mev  I  love  thee  too  well  to  be  pleased  at  any  for- 
tune which  shall  be,  or  seem,  better  than  thine " 

The  jealous  spirit  of  the  younger  brother  construed  this  sen- 
tence, which  he  interrupted,  to  refer  to  the  disappointment  of  his 
suit  with  Olivia  de  Alvaro. 

"  Indeed,  thou  approv'st  the  truth  of  thy  disclaimer  by  thy 
taunts.  Have  done,  I  pray  thee,  good  Don  Philip,  and  let  the 
time  bring  its  own  brood  ;  whether  of  hawks  or  sparrows,  it  mat- 
ters not.  I  ask  not  of  thy  purpose,  and  feel  myself  scarcely  free  to 
tell  thee  of  mine.  I  know  not  that  I  have  any  purposes.  I 
know  not  that  I  shall  oppose  any  lance  in  these  passages.  I  but 
put  myself  in  readiness  to  obey  my  necessity — or  my  mood — 
whichever  it  may  please  thee  best  to  believe.  I  only  know, 
Philip  de  Vasconselos,  that  I  am  scorned  and  wretched,  and  thou 
triumphant,  as  well  in  the  love  of  woman  as  in  fame.  Go  to: — 
why  wilt  thou  goad  my  sorrows,  when  such  is  thy  own  good  for- 
tune ?" 

"  Andres,  let  not  the  sun  set  on  this  disagreement.  I  feel  that 
thou  dost  me  wrong,  but  I  implore  thee  as  if  the  wrong  were 
mine." 

Philip  extended  his  hand  affectionately  to  his  brother,  as  he 
made  this  appeal.  The  other  did  not  receive  it ;  but,  waving  his 
own  in  the  direction  of  the  orb  now  rapidly  disappearing  behind 
the  last  distant  billows  of  the  sea,  he  said  coldly — 

"  He  sinks  !"  and,  without  another  word,  rose  up  and  strode 
down  the  slopes  which  conducted  to  the  city.  The  elder  brother 
threw  himself  upon  the  earth,  from  whence,  during  the  earnest 
portions  of  the  dialogue,  he  had  risen  at  the  same  moment  with 
the  other,  and  rested  his  aching  forehead  upon  his  hands. 

"  Verily  !"  he  said  to  himself — "  he  is  possessed  of  an  evil  de- 
mon! What  is  to  be  done?  Will  he  put  himself  in  harness 
against  me?  Can  he  purpose  this?  But  no!  no! — The  evil 


176  VASCONSELOS. 

mood  will  pass  with  the  night.  I  will  tent  him  no  further  with 
the  matter," 

That  night  beheld  the  two  brothers,  in  the  same  apartment, 
praying  ere  they  slept ;  yet  they  prayed  not  together,  nor  at  the 
same  moment.  What  was  in  their  hearts  while  they  appealed 
to  heaven  ?  Alas !  it  is  our  fear,  that,  while  the  lips  moved  in 
worship,  the  thought  was  foreign  to  the  homage !  Passion, 
rather  than  prayer,  was  in  their  mutual  hearts  ; — the  one  dream- 
ing, the  while,  of  earthly  loves  and  earthly  distinctions ; — the 
other,  filled  with  a  wild  conflict,  in  which  pride  and  vanity,  con- 
founded by  defeat  and  humiliation,  were  busily  brooding  in  wor- 
ship at  the  shrine  of  a  divinity  which  they  did  not  yet  presume  to 
name. 

The  next  day,  without  naming  his  purpose,  Andres  de  Vascon- 
selos  withdrew  from  the  place  of  lodging  with  his  brother,  and 
took  up  his  abode  with  Antonio  Segurado,  one  of  his  lieutenants. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"  Now  ringcn  trompes  loud  and  clarioun 
Ther  is  no  more  to  say,  but  est  and  west, 
In  gon  the  speres  sadly  in  the  rest ;  . 

In  golh  the  sharpe  spore  into  the  side  : 
Then  see  even  who  can  juste,  and  who  can  ride." 

THE  KNIGHTES  TALK. 

HAVANA,  at  the  period  of  the  events  which  we  record,  was  a 
growing  hamlet  of  little  more  than  a  hundred  dwellings.  But 
a  brief  space  before  the  arrival  of  Don  Hernan  de  Soto  in  the 
island,  there  had  been  an  invasion  of  the  French,  by  whom  the 
little  city  had  been  laid  in  ashes.  It  had  been  one  of  his  duties, 
on  his  arrival,  which  had  not  been  neglected  in  consequence  of 
his  preparations  for  Florida,  to  rebuild  the  town,  which  he  had 
been  doing  with  all  his  energy,  and  with  a  free  exercise  of  his 
powers  as  Adelantado.  To  him  the  Habanese  owe  the  erection 
of  the  first  fort  which  the  place  ever  possessed.  It  will  be  for 
the  Cuban  antiquarians  of  the  present  time  to  fix  its  location.  As  a 
matter  of  course,  we  are  not  to  look  to  the  works  of  De  Soto,  in 
rebuilding  the  city,  for  the  evidences  of  his  architectural  tastes, 
or  for  any  enduring  proofs  of  the  labor  of  his  hands.  The  place 
then  afforded  but  an  imperfect  idea  of  the  noble  and  imposing 
city  that  we  find  it  now.  She  then  possessed  none  of  those  old 
gray  towers  and  massive  structures,  which  now  assail  the  vision, 
and  command  the  admiration  of  the  spectator.  Her  heights  and 
harbors  we«e  not  then,  as  now,  covered  with  the  mighty  and 
frowning  fortresses  that  stretch  themselves  around  her,  with  a 
hundred  thousand  guardian  hands  grasping  bolts  of  iron  terror 
for  her  protection.  But,  if  less  threatening  and  powerful,  she  was 
not  less  lovely  and  attractive.  Her  beautiful  bay,  then  as  now, 


178  VASCONSELOS. 

lacked  but  little  of  the  helps  of  art  to  render  it  as  wooing  and 
persuasive  as  that  famous  one  of  the  Italian  ;  and,  in  the  luxuriance 
of  her  verdure,  which  covered,  with  a  various  and  delicious  beauty, 
all  her  heights;  in  the  intense  brilliancy  and  clearness  of  her  moon- 
light, which  seemed  rather  to  hallow  and  to  soften,  than  to  impair 
the  individuality  and  distinctness  of  objects,  as  beheld  by  day  ;  in 
the  exquisite  fragrance  from  her  groves,  and  the  soothing  sweet- 
ness of  the  sea-breeze — which,  in  that  tropical  climate,  one  re- 
gards as  the  most  blessed  of  all  the  angels  who  take  part  in  the 
destinies  of  earth — playing  like  a  thoughtless  and  innocent  child 
among  forests  of  vines  and  flowers — the  fancy  became  sensible  of 
a  condition,  in  which  life  can  offer  nothing  more  grateful,  or  more 
fresh ;  and,  to  be  sure  of  which  always,  ambition  might  well  be 
satisfied  to  lay  aside  his  spear  and  shield  forever.  Her  cottages, 
each  as  it  were  enshrined  amidst  an  empire  of  fruits  and  fra- 
grance, already  wore  that  aspect  which,  in  oriental  regions,  assures 
us  of  the  dolce  far  niente  in  possession  of  their  inmates,  justifying 
vagabondage,  and  so  irresistibly  persuasive,  that  one  who  feels, 
ceases  to  wonder  that  a  people,  having  such  possessions,  should  be 
content  to  seek  nothing  farther — should  demand  nothing  more 
from  nature — should  even,  in  process  of  time,  become  indifferent 
to  the  wants  and  appliances  of  art — should  forget  the  civilization 
which  they  have  won — shake  off  the  convention  which  has  fettered 
them,  and  lapse  away  into  the  stagnation,  if  not  the  savageism,  of  the 
aboriginals ;  knowing  life  only  in  a  delicious  reverie,  in  which  ex- 
istence is  an  abstraction  rather  than  a  condition ;  a  dream,  rather 
than  a  performance;  where  living  implies  no  anxiety,  acquisition 
no  toil,  enjoyment  no  cessation  ;  in  which  nothing  is  apprehended 
so  much  as  change,  even  though  such  change  may  bring  with  it  the 
promise  of  a  new  pleasure.  Such  is  the  power  of  climate ;  such 
the  charm  of  that  of  Cuba ;  but  we  must  not  be  understood  as  as- 
suming that  such,  at  that  period,  was  its  effect  upon  the  European 
inhabitants.  The  luxuries  of  society  in  that  day  had  not  so  much 
accumulated,  nor  was  the  popular  taste  so  much  relaxed  by  the 
process  of  social  refinement,  as  to  enfeeble  the  energies  and  exer- 
tions of  her  people.  They  were  still  the  hardy  race  which  had 


THE   SPANIARDS  IN   AMERICA.  179 

been  trained  to  endurance,  strife,  and  all  sorts  of  adventure,  by 
the  unceasing  struggles  of  three  hundred  years.  The  benign  cli- 
mate had  not  yet  done  the  work  of  emasculation — perhaps  never 
v. ii ild  have  done  this  work,  if  the  surrounding  savages  had  been 
k'ft  partially  unconquered.  Had  the  Spaniards,  with  the  profound 
policy  which  is  said  to  have  marked  the  history  of  Aztec  supre- 
macy, suffered  rival  and  hostile  races  still  to  exist,  upon  whom  pe- 
riodically their  young  warriors  could  exercise  their  weapons,  the 
vigorous  energies  of  their  people  might  have  been  trained  to  re- 
sist all  the  blandishments  of  climate.  As  yet,  they  remained 
unimpaired  by  its  insidious  sweetness.  The  savage  still  harbored 
in  the  mountains ;  the  Caribbee  still  fed  upon  his  captive  along  the 
margin  of  the  gulf;  the  Apalachian,  a  fearless  warrior,  still  roved 
unconquered  in  his  mighty  shades  ;  and  the  Spaniard,  still  needy 
with  all  his  treasures,  looked  out,  on  every  hand,  for  empires 
which  he  must  yet  possess.  He  was  sensible  of  the  delicious  lux- 
ury of  his  Cuban  climate,  but  did  not  yield  to  it  his  strength.  That 
fierce,  vigorous  life  which  distinguished  the  Castilian  character,  at 
the  period  of  the  conquests  of  Spain  in  the  new  world, — to  which 
was  due  such  a  wonderful  constellation  of  great  captains — Cortez, 
the  Pizarros,  Ojeda,  Balboa,  and  a  host  besides — declared  the 
energies  of  a  people  in  their  prime,  with  a  startling  mission  of  per- 
formance before  them,  demanding  the  equal  exercise  of  the  best 
genius  and  courage.  The  compound  passion  of  avarice  and  ambi- 
tion left  them  in  no  humor  for  repose.  Without  pause,  yet  not 
blindly,  they  pursued  their  mission  ;  and  the  impatient  and  fevered 
restlessness  which  it  demanded  and  excited,  rendered  them  supe- 
rior to  every  persuasion  that  threatened  conflict  with  their 
strength.  These  could  only  prevail  finally  with  the  race  which, 
with  ample  luxuries  in  possession,  find  no  longer  in  their  thirst 
the  provocation  to  performance.  For  the  present,  no  Spaniard 
car.  enjoy  the  sweets  of  Cuban  airs  with  comparative  safety.  They 
have  still  a  great  work  to  do,  are  still  goaded  by  fiery  passions 
which  will  not  suffer  them  to  sleep,  and  they  seize  their  luxuries 
with  tlu>  mood  of  the  hurrying  traveller,  in  a  strange  land,  who 
plucks  the  flower  along  the  wayside  as  he  passes,  and  hastens  on 


180  VASCONSELOS. 

his  way.  The  Spaniards  of  that  day  gathered  all  their  luxuries 
en  route,  and  threw  one  acquisition  away  as  soon  as  they  made 
another.  The  fresh  desires  of  achievements  kept  them  from  all 
loitering.  Acknowledging  the  sweets  and  beauties  of  the  scene,  as 
proffered  them  by  Nature — acknowledging  with  due  appreciation 
the  bounty  in  her  gifts — they  tasted  only,  and  pressed  forward. 
They  were,  then,  far  from  yielding  to  that  base  faith  (for  human- 
ity), which  finds  present  possessions  ample  for  their  wants.  It 
needed  yet  the  riper  experience  of  a  hundred  coming  years,  and 
enjoyments  not  yet  within  their  grasp,  to  reconcile  them  to  an- 
other moral — to  the  surrender  of  all  such  as  might  be  rising  to 
their  hope !  They  are  now  driven  by  those  fierce  wants  of  Old 
Spain,  such  as  naturally  rage  in  a  condition  of  society,  which  toil- 
some necessities  still  goad,  and  where  the  door  to  pride  and  power 
is  open  always  to  the  staff  of  gold.  Mere  ease  is  not  the  object. 
This,  in  Cuba,  is  already  in  the  possession  of  its  people.  They 
have  only  to  live  in  the  sunshine,  and  let  themselves  alone,  and 
they  live !  But  in  the  days  of  De  Soto  they  did  not  hold  such 
life  to  be  living.  They  had  then  fiercer  impulses  to  appease,  and 
more  exacting  and  earnest  appetites  to  satisfy.  They  obeyed  a 
destiny  !  They  were  still  chiefly  sensible  of  passions  taught  in 
the  market-place ;  by  the  multitude ;  during  the  struggle ;  in 
which  to  hope  is  to  contend; — strife,  blood,  conquest,  glory  and 
personal  prominence,  in  all  situations  constituting  the  great  argu- 
ment to  heart  and  mind.  Hence  the  individuality  of  the  Span- 
iard ;  his  reference  of  all  things  to  self;  his  swelling  pride  ;  his 
stern  magnificence;  his  audacious  courage ;  the  unfailing  hardihood 
of  his  adventure.  How  should  a  character  such  as  this  be  sensi- 
ble to  the  unobtrusive  beauties  of  the  natural  world — to  the  in- 
sinuating sweetness  of  breeze  and  zephyr — to  the  charm  of  flower 
and  landscape  ?  How  slow  will  he  be  to  value  that  soft  repose 
from  all  excitements,  in  which  we  are  required  to  share,  which 
belongs  naturally  to  such  a  life  as  that  of  the  Cuban,  where  the 
earth  is  always  a  bloom,  where  the  air  is  always  fragrance,  where 
the  skies  give  out  forever  an  atmosphere  of  love  !  Flowers  and 
fruits,  the  sweets  of  sky  and  air,  and  forests  and  oceans,  all  beau- 


LAWS   OF   PROGRESS.  181 

Liful  Ln  turn,  all  linked  together  by  assimilative  beauties,  and  all 
basing,  singly  and  together, — all  nevertheless  fail — perhaps, 
fortunately  then, — to  supersede,  in  the  minds  of  our  Spaniards, 
the  habitual  desires  of  their  hearts.  Still,  the  heroic  pageant  is 
in  the  ascendant ;  the  human  passion.  The  crowded  spectacle, 
the  strife  of  violent  forces,  the  eager  scene  of  human  struggle  and 
conquest,  make  them  heedless  of  all  that  is  simply  sweet  and 
lovely  in  their  possession.  Even  women  share  the  tastes  with 
the  passions  of  the  sterner  sex,  and  turn  from  their  groves  and 
gardens  to  the  gory  terrors  of  the  bull-fight. 

But  why  chide?  These  people  are  simply  the  pioneers  for 
other  races,  who  shall  more  securely  enjoy  what  they  neglect 
and  despise.  They  work  in  obedience  to  laws  of  nature,  which 
regard  rather  the  uses  of  men  than  their  pleasures.  One  race 
but  paves  the  way  for  another.  We  blaze  the  pathways  for  fu- 
ture generations,  happy  if  they  should  be  the  children  of  our 
loins,  for  whom  we  win  empire  and  clear  the  way.  The  Span- 
iards of  the  time  of  De  Soto,  in  consequence  of  a  fatal  defect  in 
their  morals,  did  not  always  conquer  the  inheritance  for  their  own 
children.  But  of  this  they  did  not  dream  !  How  should  they  '} 
Let  us  now  return  from  our  wanderings,  and  make  generaliza- 
tion give  place  to  detail. 

Following  out  his  plan,  for  increasing  the  enthusiasm  at  once  of 
his  own  followers,  and  of  the  people  at  large  of  the  island  of  Cuba, 
Hernande  Soto  was  now  busied  with  his  preparations  for  the  public 
sports  which  he  had  appointed,  and  with  which  he  was  to  delight 
the  fancies  of  the  Cubans.  It  was  good  policy  that  he  should  do 
these  things  ;  for  it  must  be  remembered  that  he  was  not  mere- 
ly Adelantado  of  Florida,  and  of  its  imaginary  treasures  and 
empires,  but  governor  also  of  all  Cuba ;  which  beautiful  and 
prolific  island  was  to  be  K-ft  in  charge  of  the  Lady  Isabella  while 
he  pursued  his  toils  of  conquests  in  the  wild  recesses  of  the 
Apalachian.  He  had  designed  his  preparation  on  no  ordinary 
scale  of  magnificence.  Thoujjh  reputed  to  be  a  close  and  avari- 
cious general — proverbially  so — he  was  yet  fully  aware  that  there 
are  periods  when  it  is  necessary  to  be  lavish  and  even  profligate 


182  VASCONSELOS. 

of  expenditure.  The  objects  which  he  now  proposed  to  attain, 
strongly  urged  and  fully  justified  a  large  departure  from  his 
usual  habits  of  economy.  His  wife,  the  noble  Lady  Isabella, 
was,  however,  in  some  degree  the  prompter  of  this  liberality. 
She  was  no  common  woman,  but  one  born  with  a  princely  eye 
to  whatever  is  noble  in  the  regards  of  man,  whether  in  the  ex- 
ternals or  the  substances  of  society  and  State.  A  generous  im- 
pulse, at  all  times,  made  her  anxious  to  satisfy  the  popular  de- 
sires— that  is,  wherever  their  cravings  led  them  to  the  apprecia- 
tion of  great  deeds  and  graceful  performance.  Her  knowledge 
of  the  present  objects  to  be  attained  by  her  lord  from  the  com- 
mon sympathies,  increased,  in  considerable  degree,  the  naturally 
gracious  and  free  affluence  of  her  disposition.  She  bent  her 
mind  to  the  object,  and  consulted  with  all  round  her  the  various 
schemes  by  which  to  render  the  projected  display  one  of  a 
magnificence  never  before  paralleled  in  Cuba ;  and  though  the 
Adelantado  groaned  in  secret  over  the  excess  of  expenditure 
which  naturally  followed  from  her  plans,  he  was  yet  fully  con- 
scious of  the  good  policy  by  which  they  were  dictated ;  and  his 
tastes  readily  acknowledged  the  beauty,  skill  and  splendor  which 
promised  to  be  the  results  of  her  exertions. 

The  day  was  at  hand,  set  aside  for  the  commencement  of  the 
public  sports,  which  had  become  official,  and  were  to  last  three 
days.  We  are  not  to  suppose  that,  because  the  higher  forms  of 
chivalry  were  dying  out  in  Europe — because,  in  fact,  the  insti- 
tution no  longer  cherished  there  any  of  the  nobler  objects  of 
the  order,  and  had  sunk,  from  a  social  and  political,  into  a  mere 
military  machine, — that  its  displays  had  become  less  ostenta- 
tious or  less  attractive  when  attempted.  On  the  contrary,  it  is 
usually  the  case  that,  with  the  decay  of  an  institution,  its  efforts 
at  external  splendor,  are  apt  to  be  even  greater  than  in  the  hour 
of  its  most  unquestioned  ascendency;  even  as  the  fashionable 
merchant  is  said  to  give  his  most  magnificent  parties  when  he 
has  made  all  his  preparations  for  a  business  failure !  In  the  new 
world,  in  particular,  where  we  might  reasonably  suppose  that 
the  imitations  were  necessarily  rude  and  inferior,  of  all  these 


PREPARATION   FOR   THE   TOURNEY.  183 

pageants,  which  seem,  over  all,  to  require  the  highest  finish  in 
art  and  the  utmost  polish  in  society — which  seein,  in  fact,  to 
belong  only  to  an  old  civilization,  such  as  that  of  Christian 
Europe, — it  was  ordinarily  found  that  the  ambition  for  display 
was  more  than  commonly  ostentatious  and  expensive.  Certain 
it  is,  that  nothing  of  the  sort  in  Spain,  for  a  long  time  before,  sur- 
passed the  promise,  whether  as  regards  the  taste  or  the  splendor, 
of  the  great  preparations  which  had  been  made  by  De  Soto  for 
his  three  days  of  tourney *and  feats  of  arms,  in  the  infant  city  of 
Havana.  The  lists,  as  our  fair  gossip,  Donna  Leonora  de 
Tobar,  has  already  told  us,  were  erected  in  the  beautiful  amphi- 
theatre just  without  the  suburbs  of  the  town.  Here  scaffoldings 
had  been  raised  for  the  spectators,  running  half  way  round  the 
barriers,  inclosing  a  portion  of  the  area.  These  were  to  be 
draped  with  showy  stuffs.  On  some  slight  elevations,  along  the 
opposite  space,  a  ruder  sort  of  scaffoldings  were  reared  for  the 
common  people.  These,  in  those  days,  did  not  assume  that  what 
was  given  them  in  charity  should  be  of  a  quality  to  compare 
with  the  best.  There  was  yet  a  third  distinction  made  in  behalf 
of  the  persons  in  power,  and  their  friends — the  persons  of  noble 
birth  and  high  position.  Their  place  was  something  higher  than 
the  others,  built  of  better  materials,  and  in  more  careful  manner. 
In  the  centre  was  a  gorgeous  canopy,  which  might  have  served  for 
a  prince  of  the  blood.  It  covered  a  raised  seat,  richly  cushioned. 
This  was  designed  for  the  Adelantado  and  his  noble  lady.  His 
immediate  friends  and  chiefs,  and  th3  ladies  of  his  court,  were 
honored  with  private  places  on  either  hand.  Before  this  seat 
were  painted  the  arms  of  Spain,  on  a  rich  shield  or  escutcheon ; 
its  great  golden  towers,  significant  equally  of  its  pride  and 
strength,  fronting  the  lists  and  the  oi  polloi,  and  forming  a  beau- 
tiful exhortation  to  the  indulgence  of  the  amor  patriot.  Di- 
rectly over  the  canopy,  and  streaming  proudly  from  a  staff  that 
rose  from  behind  it,  flaunted,  in  mighty  folds  of  silk  heavily 
wrought  with  gold  tissue,  the  armorial  banner  of  Castile.  A 
long  series  of  escutcheons  of  a  smaller  size,  but  similar  in  shape 
to  that  in  the  centre,  and  not  inferior  in  workmanship,  formed  a 


184  VASCOXSELOS. 

tier  of  very  superb  panels  along  the  scaffoldings.  These  denoted 
the  seats  which  were  assigned  to  the  noble  families,  whose  arms 
they  bore ;  each  placed  according  to  the  rank  of  the  owner,  or 
the  degree  of  power,  or  influence,  which  he  possessed  in  the 
colony.  Banners  and  bannerets,  pennons  and  pennonceles,  waved 
from  spears  whose  broad  and  massive  darts  were  fashioned  soma. 
times  of  solid  silver.  The  seats  were  cushioned  with  rich  dra- 
peries ;  with  shawls  of  brilliant  colors,  and  cotton  fabrics  dyed  in 
various  unrivalled  hues,  such  as  the  people  of  Peru  and  Mexico 
had  learned  to  fashion  in  a  style  superior  to  anything  beheld  in 
Europe.  Bright  armor  of  various  kinds,  employed  for  orna- 
ment, glittered  and  gleamed  at  proper  intervals,  along  the  splen- 
did scaffoldings ;  from  which,  at  an  early  hour  of  the  morning  as- 
signed for  the  sports,  choice  instruments  poured  forth  peals  of 
the  most  gay  and  inspiring  music.  The  plan  of  the  festivities  re- 
quired that  the  cool  hours  of  the  day  only  should  be  employed 
for  the  more  active  exercises  of  the  combatants.  The  heat  of  the 
noonday  sun  in  that  ardent  clime  was,  even  at  this  early  period 
of  the  year — the  close  of  April — too  intense  to  render  agreeable 
any  violent  displays  of  agility,  under  heavy  armor,  for  mere 
amusement.  The  first  day  was  assigned  to  the  young  knights 
and  squires,  who  were  to  run  at  the  ring,  joust  with  blunt  spears, 
and  smite  the  Turk's  head — the  English  Quintain.  There  were 
to  be  sports  also  for  the  arquebusiers,  and  the  crossbowmen, — 
the  latter  instrument  of  war  not  yet  having  been  superseded  by 
firearms.  To  these  a  certain  time  was  to  be  allotted,  and  bull- 
fights were  to  follow,  and  to  close  the  day.  The  amusements  of 
the  evening,  though  all  arranged,  were  yet  of  a  private  character, 
and  did  not  fall  within  the  plan  of  the  Adelantado.  They  were 
also  on  a  scale  highly  attractive  and  magnificent. 

With  the  first  glimpses  of  the  dawn  the  spectators  were  to  be 
seen  ass(  mbling.  The  citizens  were  turning  out  in  all  directic  ns. 
The  people  were  crowding  in  from  the  country.  The  whole 
island  sent  a  delegation  of  eyes  to  see,  and  hands  to  clap,  and 
hearts  to  drink  in  and  remember,  long  afterwards,  the  wondrous 
sights  presented  in  that  memorable  spectacle — a  spectacle  which 


THE    GATHERING.  185 

was  to  be  not  unworthy  of  the  future  conquests,  in  the  country 
of  the  Apalachian.  Very  curious  was  the  motley  crowd  that 
showed  itself  on  all  the  streets  and  avenues  leading  to  the  great 
area  of  attraction.  There  were  muleteers  from  the  mountain  ; 
wandering  tribes  akin  to  the  gipsies  ;  retired  soldiers  ;  and  half- 
sax  age  groups,  in  which  it  was  difficult  to  discern  which  race  pre- 
dominated most,  the  white  man,  the  red  man,  or  the  negro.  They 
constituted  a  curious  amalgam  ;  each  exhibiting  some  trait  or 
characteristic,  picturesque,  wild,  individual,  such  as  Murillo 
would  delight  to  paint — such  as  would  have  risen  into  dignity 
under  the  brush  of  Rembrandt.  Girls  came  bounding  along 
with  the  castanets,  by  the  side  of  mules  on  which  sat  tottering 
grandmothers ;  boys  loitered  with  the  crossbow,  eager  to  pick 
up  a  real  by  shooting  it  down  at  twenty  paces.  Contrabandists 
showed  open  faces,  as,  on  pack  mules,  they  brought  the  Aguar- 
diente for  sale,  in  stone  jugs,  one  on  each  side  ;  its  mouth  open- 
ing from  the  bosom  of  a  panier.  The  stately  owner  of  a  rich 
hacienda,  where  he  marked  his  hundred  calves  each  spring,  rode 
on  a  brave  barb  by  the  side  of  his  family,  occupying  a  vehicle 
still  in  use,  cumbrous  but  delightful  of  motion  beyond  all  others, 
— the  volante.  We  must  not  stop  to  describe  it.  As  at  the 
present  day  in  Old  Spain,  in  the  rural  districts,  nothing  was  more 
curious  than  the  various  costumes  and  characters  exhibited  by  the 
appearance  of  the  people  from  the  country.  Every  department 
in  the  old  country  had  its  fitting  representative,  tenacious,  in  the 
.»ew  world,  of  all  that  distinguished  his  province  in  the  old.  The 
gay  and  vivacious  Andalusian,  ribanded  at  wrist  and  shoulder, 
oreast  and  shoe  ; — the  confident  and  swaggering  Biscayan  ;  the 
dull  native  of  Valencia ;  the  haughty  Catalan  ; — you  might 
mark  them  all  at  a  glance.  Groups  wandered  on  together,  the 
highways  to  the  city  being  for  hours  never  without  its  strollers. 
Old  songs  were  to  be  heard,as  they  went,from  natural  musicians  ; 
sad  touches,  oddly  mingled  with  lively  redondillas,  and  some- 
times, from  some  rude  crov.'der,  half  soldier  and  half  prio.st,  or 
poet,  you  might  hear  extempore  ballads  devoted  to  the  deeds  of 
of  Cortez  and  Pizarro.  Mules  hi  strings  came  down  with 


186  VASCONSELOS. 

fruit  to  the  great  market ;  lines  of  vehicles  of  all  sorts,  all  add- 
ing to  the  clamor.  Sometimes,  but  rarely,  the  beggar  held  out 
his  cap  for  charity,  and  was  laughed  at  as  a  cheat ;  for  beggary 
in  the  new  world  must  needs  be  so  always.  There  was  room 
and  fruit  for  all.  Sometimes  the  beggar,  however,  was  a  manola 
of  the  lowest  class,  who  never  asked  for  alms,  but  got  her  fee 
for  the  doleful  ditties,  which  no  one  stopped  to  hear.  There  was 
better  music  forward  ;  and  the  crowds  hurried  on  their  march. 
But,  to  enumerate  is  impossible.  Fancy  the  most  picturesque 
region  of  the  world,  filled  with  the  most  picturesque  of  all  peo- 
ple, and  the  most  contradictory ;  too  proud  for  restraint,  yet 
with  a  curious  conventional  arrangement,  which,  making  every 
thing  grave,  admirably  all  owed  of  the  mingling  of  the  grand  and 
the  ridiculous ; — all  at  once  thrown  into  disorder,  under  condi- 
tions the  most  exciting ; — all  in  highest  state  of  emotion,  yet  all  in 
the  most  amiable  temper; — happy  in  the  moment,  and  prepared 
to  gather  happiness  from  all  possible  sources. 

Already,  at  early  dawn,  the  trumpets  began  to  pour  forth  their 
most  lively  fanfares.  Already,  a  thousand  cries  of  hope  and 
expectation  arose  from  the  gathering  and  rapidly  increasing 
groups.  Some  of  the  young  champions  were  already  on  the 
ground,  prepared  for  coursing,  for  shooting,  for  running  witli 
spears  at  the  ring,  and  with  swords  upon  the  Quintain.  Others 
were  busy  raising  butts  and  preparing  their  shafts  for  the  sports 
of  archery.  Some  had  chosen  their  rivals,  in  passages  with  blunt 
lance  and  muffled  rapier.  Jugglers  and  buffoons  were  on  the 
ground — tumblers  began  their  antics,  and,  ever  and  anon,  a  loud 
burst  of  clamor  from  the  crowd  announced  some  clever  perform- 
ance, or  the  appearance  of  some  favorite  champion.  Murmurs, 
occasionally  rising  into  shouts,  declared  the  emotions  which 
wrought  restlessly  in  the  bosoms  of  the  multitude,  like  the  billows 
of  the  troubled  sea  heaving  up  in  the  glorious  sunshine.  But  we 
have  to  describe  for  the  present,  not  anticipate. 

The  lists  were  made  sufficiently  ample  for  the  conflict  of  horse 
as  well  as  foot,  and  for  the  passages-at-arms  of  several  as  of  single 
combatants.  But  these  did  not  confine  the  various  exercises  of 


THE   PROGRAMME.  187 

many  who  aimed  at  sports  of  their  own,  and  who  found  favorite 
spots  upon  the  sides  of  the  surrounding  hills.  Rules  had  been 
published,  prescribing  the  various  forms  of  combat  which  were 
to  be  allowed  within  the  lists,  and  the  manner  in  which  they  were 
10  be  conducted.  These  were  all  to  be  pacific  in  character,  how- 
e\cr  deadly  might  be  the  weapons  which  the  parties  tho.ught 
proper  to  employ.  In  the  hands  of  the  good  knight  or  squire,  it 
was  understood  that  the  sharp  spear,  the  sword,  and  the  battle- 
axe,  might  be  used  with  the  noblest  shows  of  skill  and  power,  yet 
without  hurt  to  life  or  limb.  There  were  tilts  appointed  with  the 
lance,  and  duels  with  the  sword  ;  contests  of  strength  were  to  be 
tried  with  the  mace  and  battle-axe,  and  of  dexterity  with  the 
dagger  and  the  knife.  But,  in  each  case,  the  contest  was  inva- 
riably to  be  decided,  when  one  of  the  combatants  should  be  put  at 
such  Disadvantage  as  would  place  him  at  the  mercy  of  his  op- 
povrnt,  or  render  necessary  for  his  relief  a  battle  a  lou trance. 
To  compel  respect  to  this  regulation  was  not  always  easy  when 
the  pride  of  the  champion  was  mortified,  and  his  passions  roused  ; 
but  De  Soto  had  reserved  to  himself,  as  of  right,  to  be  the  judge 
of  the  field,  and  his  warder  was  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro,  a 
person  no  longer  young,  of  grave  aspect,  of  high  authority,  and 
quite  learned,  as  well  as  experienced  in  the  business  of  the  tour- 
nament. It  was  reasonable  to  suppose,  therefore,  that  a  due  re- 
gard to  the  regulations  which  had  been  published  would  be  ob- 
served among  the  combatants.  Of  these  hereafter ;  we  must  pause 
for  the  present. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

"  Furious  to  the  last, 
Full  in  the  centre  stands  the  bull  at  bay, 
'Mid  wounds,  and  clinging  darts,  and  lances  brast, 
And  foes  disabled  in  the  brutal  fray  : 
And  now  the  matadores  round  him  play, 
Shake  the  red  cloak  and  poise  the  ready  brand : 
Once  more,  through  all,  he  bursts  his  thundering  way — 
Vain  rage  !  the  mantle  quits  the  conynge  hand, 
Wraps  his  fierce  eye — 'tisposi — he  sinks  upon  the  sand  !" — BYRON. 

CHIVALRY  is  only  another  name  for  enthusiasm.  The  one 
never  dies  out  in  a  community  where  the  other  may  yet  be 
found.  Enthusiasm  must  exist  where  there  is  enterprise  and 
courage  ;  where  there  is  zeal  and  sympathy ;  where  the  virtues 
essential  for  performance  do  not  entirely  stagnate.  We  do  not 
make  sufficient  account  of  this  great  leavener  of  the  passions  and 
the  virtues,  which  purifies  the  one  and  stimulates  the  other. 
When  a  people  too  greatly  refines  itself,  it  sneers  at  zeal  and 
enthusiasm.  Empressement  is  vulgar  in  the  eyes  of  an  aristocra- 
cy ;  and  an  aristocracy  thus  sinks  into  contempt !  Whenever 
the  tastes  show  themselves  wanting  in  enthusiasm,  they  are  about 
to  destroy  their  possessors. 

The  Spaniards  had  not  yet  reached  this  condition  in  Cuba. 
Never  were  people  more  easily  aroused,  or  more  enthusiastic. 
To  see  them  weep  and  smile,  and  shout  and  sing,  without  any 
moving  cause,  apparently,  you  would  suppose  them  simply 
crazy  ;  but  their  madness  had  its  moving  cause,  however  latent, 
arising  from  the  active  sympathy  of  the  real  life  within  their 
souls,  and  the  grand  and  unmeasured  passions  which  they  daily 
exercised.  Give  me  a  people  for  performance,  who  have  not 
yet  learned  to  conceal  their  emotions. 

188 


THE   CROWD.  189 

Havana  swarmed  with  life.  At  an  early  hour  of  the  morning, 
as  we  have  said — nay,  long  before  the  dawn — the  hum  and  buzvc 
of  preparation  were  to  be  heard  in  every  quarter.  The  country 
had  poured  itself  into  the  city  ;  the  city  had  suddenly  taken  the 
voice  and  wing  of  liberty,  such  as  the  country  usually  enjoys. 
You  might  see,  all  night,  the  gleam  upon  the  hill-sides  of  torches 
guiding  the  footsteps  of  long  cavalcades  over  all  the  routes  from 
the  interior.  Knights,  nobles,  artisans,  peasants  and  moun- 
taineers, arrieros  and  contraband istas,  banished  rogues,  outlaws, 
returning  in  disguise,  and  reckless  of  danger,  in  the  passion  which 
the  tournament  inspired  ;  we  have  seen  already  how  motley  and 
various  were  the  groups.  Crowds,  from  far  and  near,  came  on 
foot.  A  single  mule  sometimes  contrived  to  bring  a  family  ; 
the  cart,  the  sedan,  the  volante,  were  all  in  requisition  ;  and  very 
picturesque  and  beautiful  was  it  to  see  the  long  trains,  seeming, 
for  all  the  world,  one  great  continuous  procession,  winding  along 
the  circuitous  paths ;  climbing  suddenly  to  the  hill-top,  streaming 
through  the  plain,  and  vaguely  reappearing — recognized  by 
their  torches  only — in  the  deep  dim  avenues  of  the  silent  forest. 
After  a  group  on  foot,  gay  and  rambling,  would  you  see  the 
stately  and  swelling  hidalgo,  on  his  great  horse,  showily  capari- 
soned in  gaudy  and  costly  garments.  Noble  ladies  in  their  car- 
riages, of  whatever  sorts — sometimes  in  litters  borne  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  slender  natives  of  the  island — followed  under 
the  guidance  of  the  Don.  At  a  respectful  distance  in  the  rear, 
came  groups  of  peasants,  and  there,  heedless  of  all,  rambled  for- 
ward a  savagely  bearded  mountaineer  upon  a  donkey,  whose 
horrid  screams  at  intervals,  causes  the  gorge  of  the  knight  to  rise 
with  the  desire  to  punish  the  impertinence  that  dogs  his  heels  so 
closely  with  such  a  beast.  But  even  the  Baron  grows  indulgent 
with  the  spirit  of  the  scene,  and  the  mountaineer  rides  nearer 
and  nearer,  without  suffering  from  the  wrath  which,  at  another 
time,  his  approach  would  most  certainly  provoke. 

But  day  opens  the  mighty  pageant,  and  the  sun  hurries  up 
with  his  purple  banner,  to  be  present  at  the  scene.  Fancy,  now, 
the  conflicting  but  mingling  masses ;  the  picturesque  and  oddly 


190"  VASCONSELOS. 

sorted  costumes ;  the  wild,  but  exhilarating  mixture  of  voices ; 
the  hum,  the  stir,  the  billowy  swaying  to  and  fro,  with  roar  and 
scream,  and  cry  and  hiss,  and  shout  and  laugh — that,  however  vari- 
ous, all  fuse  themselves  together,  as  it  were,  into  one  universal 
voice  of  hope  and  enjoyment.  The  hills  surrounding  the  amphithea- 
tre are  already  covered  with  tents  and  booths  of  reed,  thatched  with 
straw;  with  vehicles  of  all  sort;  groups  of  mules  and  horses  ;  stands 
for 'food,  and  fruit,  and  liquor  ;  shows  of  mountebanks,  and  tables 
for  the  gamester.  Gay  steeds  are  fastened,  and  watched  by 
liveried  pages,  under  clumps  of  palms  affording  shelter.  Gay 
banners  stream  from  every  tent  or  lodge,  assigned  to  knights 
and  men-at-arms.  These,  raised  as  if  by  magic,  during  the  pre- 
ceding night,  occupied  the  more  eligible  vacant  places  contiguous. 
Each  bears  without  the  armorial  insignia  of  the  noble,  whether  he 
held  due  warranty  from  the  legitimate  herald,  or  owed  his  rank 
only  to  the  persevering  ambition  of  the  'parvenu,  who  seeks,  un- 
der the  shelter  of  a  gray  antiquity,  to  hide  the  short  frock  and 
coarse  frame  of  the  adventurer. 

At  intervals  a  sweet  strain  of  music  rises  from  a  curtained 
verandah,  and  an  occasional  shrill  blare  of  a  sudden  trumpet  an- 
nounces the  setting  up  of  some  banneret,  or  the  arrival  upon  the 
ground  of  the  followers  of  some  one  of  the  many  bold  cavaliers 
who  designed  to  take  a  part  in  the  business  of  the  tourney. 
Some  of  the  pavilions  of  these  knights  are  of  silk,  ornamented 
with  figures  of  gold-thread  and  brocade ;  not  less  splendid  to  the 
eye  are  those  of  others,  though  made  only  of  the  cotton  stuffs  of 
the  island,  of  Mexico  and  Peru ;  but  these  are  all  glowing  with 
rich  and  living  dyes  of  the  new  world,  the  art  of  preparing  and 
using  which  was  peculiar  to  the  country.  The  pursuivants  are 
busy,  going  forever  to  and  fro,  assigning  places,  according  to  de- 
gree and  rank,  for  the  pavilions  of  the  several  champions. 
Troops  of  cavalry  flourished  around,  as  a  police,  coercing  order. 
Small  detachments  of  infantry  march  to  and  fro,  their  matchlocks 
shining  in  the  sun.  The  raided  centre  of  the  scaffolding  around 
the  amphitheatre,  which  is  assigned  to  the  Adelantado  and  his  im- 
mediate circle,  is  already  pavilioned  with  a  gorgeous  canopy. 


DE   SOTO'S   MOTTO.  191 

The  banner  of  Castile  and  Leon  is  already  rolling  cut,  with  its 
great,  gorgeous  and  gold  folds  above  it.  Not  so  loftily  raised, 
but  yet  so  placed  in  the  foreground  as  to  attract  all  eyes,  is  the 
personal  banner  of  De  Soto  :  a  sheet  of  azure,  on  which  is  painted 
a  spirited  picture  of  a  cavalier,  mounted  on  a  fiery  charger,  both 
armed  to  the  teeth,  and  about  to  leap  a  precipice.  The  picture  il- 
lustrated one  of  the  Adelantado's  great  feats  in  Peru.  The  motto 
is  Italian,  in  gold  letters — ;' Fidali  pur;  che  a  trionfar  ti  guido." 
When  De  Soto  was  asked  by  Don  Balthazar  why  he  put  so  prom- 
ising a  motto  in  a  foreign  language,  which  was  known  to  so  few  of 
his  people,  he  answered — "  That  it  may  be  more  impressive  !"  The 
Ailelentado  was  something  of  a  philosopher.  Hardly  was  the 
banner  seen  to  wave  than  some  one  was  ready  to  translate  for 
the  curious  multitude  the  mysterious  promise.  When  told  that 
the  gallant  cavalier  only  swore  iri  Italian  that  he  would  conduct 
them  to  conquest,  there  was  not  a  syllable  of  the  inscription  that 
was  not  gotten  instantly  by  heart,  and  that  night  it  was  sung  as 
the  burden  of  a  refrain,  by  a  native  rhymester,  who  was  content 
to  encourage  the  enterprise  upon  which — he  did  not  go  himself ! 
Next  to  the  pavilion  of  De  Soto,  on  the  right,  was  that  of  the 
Captain  General,  Don  Porcallo  de  Figueroa,  his  banner  shining 
above  it,  gleaming  with  a  sun  of  gold.  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro 
had  his  place  on  the  left  of  the  Adelantado,  whom  he  was  to  as- 
sist as  warder  or  master  of  the  tourney.  We  need  not  range  the 
places  of  the  rest,  nor  enumerate  the  good,  the  old,  and  the  in- 
fluential families,  to  whom  conspicuous  seats  were  assigned  for 
the  survey  of  the  spectacle.  Going  without  the  barriers,  we  ap- 
prouch  the  tents  or  pavilions  of  the  knights  who  were  expected 
to  engage  in  the  several  passages -at-arms.  Here  they  were  to 
dress  and  equip  themselves;  hither  they  were  to  retreat  and  rest 
when  wearied,  and  take  refreshment.  Each  was  sacred  to  its 
owner,  and  great  care  was  taken  by  the  police  of  the  field  that 
they  were  never  trespassed  upon  by  the  crowd.  In  the  rear 
of  each  pavilion  was  a  tent  or  shelter  of  more  common  material, 
where  the  horse  or  horses  of  the  cavalier  were  kept  and  groomed. 


192  VASCOXgELOS. 

Some  of  the  knights,  as  the  wealthy  Senor  Don  Porcallo  de 
Figueroa,  for  example,  had  a  score  of  horses ;  but  the  greater 
number,  like  our  poor  knights  of  Portugal,  had  a  single  steed 
only.  But  he-  was  generally  a  good  one,  of  great  strength  and 
endurance,  and  admirably  trained.  We  pass,  in  review,  the  sev- 
eral pavilions  without  the  barriers,  of  the  knights  first  mentioned : 
of  Nuno  de  Tobar,  of  Balthazar  de  Gallegos,  of  Juan  de  Esca- 
lante,  of  Christopher  de  Spinola,  and  many  others,  each  of  which 
bears  the  especial  shield  and  insignia  of  its  proprietor.  More  sim- 
ple than  all  the  rest,  made  of  crimson  cotton,  were  the  tents  of 
the  Portuguese  brothers.  It  was  remarked  by  curious  observers, 
that  these  tents  were  no  longer  pitched  side  by  side ;  they  were 
now  opposite  each  other,  one  on  the  right,  the  other  on  the  left 
of  the  centre.  The  banner  which  floated  above  the  pavilion  of 
Philip,  bore  the  image  of  a  ruined  c;s/*le,  from  which  a  falcon 
had  spread  its  wings  and  wa?>  ,H\v«.y.  That  of  Andres  exhibited 
a  flight  of  meteors  in  a  storrrty  V'ky,  B§th  were  significant.  The 
shields  of  the  several  cavalj.-Rj,liui.Qf  tjaeh  at  the  entrance  of  his 
tent,  and  in  a  situation  favorable  ib^'Uut  ntteint,  or  stroke  of  the 
adversary's  spear,  blunt  or  sharp,^v  iiich  was  the  customary  mode  of 
conveying  the  challenge.  At  the  opening  of  the  passages,  these 
were  transferred  to  conspicuous  places  within  the  area.  As  yet 
none  of  the  knights,  challengers,  or  defenders,  were  to  be  seen 
by  the  multitude.  Squires,  leading  horses,  or  pages  loitering 
about  the  tents,  alone  were  visible.  It  remains  to  mention  only 
that  the  torril,  or  pen  for  the  bulls,  was  constructed  beneath  the 
tiers  of  seats  assigned  to  the  common  people.  From  this  a 
closed  passage,  the  door  opening  right  upon  the  area,  conducted 
directly  to  the  ring.  In  the  rear  of  the  torril,  pavilions  were 
raised  for  the  toreadores,  picadores,  chulos  and  matadores,  each 
class  separately ;  and  these  pavilions  engaged  no  small  de- 
gree of  the  curiosity  of  the  people.  From  these  parties  they 
looked  for  their  most  grateful  enjoyments.  They  knew  the  most 
famous  toreros  by  name  ;  Cuba  could  boast  of  matadores 
who  were  worthy  to  compare  with  any  x>f  Andalusia, — sons  of 


THE   QUINTAIN.  193 

her  own  mountains,  who  could  administer  the  coup  de  grace  to 
the  bull,  while  in  his  maddening  bounds,  and  never  exhibit  an 
emotion.  But  of  these  hereafter. 

Drums  roll,  trumpets  sound ; — a  wild  burst  of  Saracenic  music 
rises  from  the  amphitheatre ;  and  the  crowds  rush  forward  to  seek 
their  places.  The  Adelantado,  at  the  head  of  a  gorgeous  caval- 
cade of  knights,  rides  into  the  ring.  Already  have  the  noble 
ladies,  with  their  several  escorts,  taken  their  seats  upon  the  ele- 
vated gallery  which  has  been  assigned  them.  The  people  are 
fast  filling  up  the  humbler  places  around  the  barriers.  De  Soto, 
amidst  fresh  bursts  of  music,  ascends  to  his  chair  of  state.  Don 
Balthazar  seats  himself  below  him.  Both  carry  truncheons.  The 
signals  are  given ;  the  sports  begin.  A  troop  of  young  squires 
and  pages  are  running  at  the  ring.  The  old  soldiers  and  expe- 
rienced cavaliers  look  on  with  the  natural  interest  of  veterans ; 
curious  to  see  who  are  to  be  their  successors  in  arms  and  distinc- 
tion. The  riding  is  very  creditable ;  some  instances  particular- 
ly graceful  and  spirited ;  though  one  or  two  handsome  youth  are 
rolled  over  in  the  dust.  The  ring  is  borne  off  triumphantly  several 
times ;  and  this  amusement  ceases  for  a  while.  Then  follows  a  less 
experienced  class  of  youth,  who  ride  at  the  Quintain.  The  Quin- 
tain is  a  lay  figure,  armed  with  a  pole,  which  is  freshly  painted. 
The  stroke,  to  be  successful  and  safe,  must  be  delivered  fairly,  in 
the  centre  of  his  shield  or  helmet.  To  miss  these,  or  to  touch 
them  unfairly,  is  to  receive  a  blow  from  the  pole  of  the  figure, 
•who  works  upon  a  pivot,  and  is  wheeled  about  by  a  moderate 
assault.  The  stroke  of  his  pole  leaves  its  mark  behind  it.  It  not 
unfrequcntly  tumbles  the  assailant  from  his  steed,  and  thus  in- 
creases the  merriment  of  the  spectators.  In  England,  the  Quin- 
tain sometimes  carried  a  bag  of  meal  at  the  end  of  his  pole,  which, 
in  a  false  atteint,  covered  his  awkward  opponent  with  flour.  On  the 
present  occasion,  the  fresh  black  paint  of  his  weapon  is  a  more  seri- 
ous danger  to  the  garments;  and  the  Quintain  left  indelible  proofs 
of  his  ability,  and  their  own  awkwardness,  on  the  gaudy  jackets 
of  many  of  his  inexperienced  assailants.  These  exercises,  which 
provoked  a  gront  deal  of  laughter,  but  did  not  much  excite  the 
9 


194:  VASCONSELOS. 

spectators,  were  followed  by  a  very  pretty  display  of  archery.  In 
each  of  these  performances  there  were,  of  course,  champions  to 
be  distinguished ;  prizes  were  accordingly  delivered,  and  the  in- 
terest of  the  spectators  was  agreeably  maintained  to  the  close. 
But  these  were  the  mere  preliminaries,  the  opening  flourishes  of 
the  entertainment ;  pleasant  enough  while  they  lasted  ;  but  not 
provocative,  nor  calculated  to  appeal  to  those  passions  which  lift 
a  people  to  their  feet,  and  force  them  to  cry  aloud  their  exulta- 
tions, or  their  fears.  The  runners  at  the  ring  and  Quintain,  and  the 
sports  of  the  archers,  were  simply  the  prologues  to  the  crowning 
entertainment  of  the  day, — this,  was  the  Bull-Fight — the  sport  of 
sports  to  the  Spaniard,  one  in  which  all  classes  delight, — which 
appeals  equally  to  the  sympathies  and  tastes  of  nobles  and  com- 
mons, of  knights  and  ladies,  and  which,  strange  as  it  may  ap- 
pear to  us,  is  said  in  no  degree  to  impair  the  sweetness,  the  grace 
and  gentleness  of  nature  in  the  tender  sex. 

A  few  words  on  this  subject.  When  we  denounce  the  humanity 
of  a  people,  who  relish  such  an  amusement,  we  commit  the  simple 
error  of  placing  our  tastes  in  judgment  upon  theirs.  The  truth 
is,  that  the  question  of  humanity  is  really  not  involved  at  all  in 
the  subject,  even  by  our  own  standards.  Our  opinion  is  simply 
superior  to  our  humanity  ;  and  while  society  with  us  maintains 
an  even  course,  we  are  thus  critical  in  respect  to  its  practices. 
Let  events  occur  which  disturb  the  habitual  course  of  things,  and 
our  opinion  gives  way  as  readily  to  our  passions  as  that  of  any 
people,  and  our  moral  sinks  as  low  as  our  humanity.  Men  are 
very  much  the  same,  in  all  countries,  as  respects  the  appetites ; 
and  we  have  in  our  exercises,  equivalent  brutalities  to  those  of 
any  people  in  the  world.  A  boxing  match  will  appeal  to  the 
tastes  of  all  of  British  blood  as  readily  as  bull-fight  or  knife 
match  to  those  of  the  Spaniard ;  and  a  cock-fight,  when  announced,' 
draws  as  large  a  crowd.  We  hunt  the  deer  with  a  spirit  quite 
as  murderous  as  that  which  the  Andalusian  knows  when  he  de- 
scends into  the  bull-ring  with  lance  and  rapier  ;  and  we  course 
with  our  dogs  after  the  fox  nightly,  with  a  pleasure  that  grows 
into  a  -*ort  of  madness,  in  proportion  to  the  prolongation  of  the 


COMPARATIVE  HUMANITY.  195 

torturous  sport.  Opinion  looks  grave,  and  utters  solemn  hu- 
manities, when  she  reads  of  Gordon  Cumming's  horrible  butch- 
eries of  the  elephant,  lion,  gazelle,  and  giraffe — noble  creatures 
all,  harmless  where  they  are  found — but  passions  and  appetites 
— our  human  nature,  gloats  over  the  murderous  page ;  arid  we 
pass,  with  keen  anxiety,  in  the  footsteps  of  the  sportsman,  and 
hear  with  exultation  the  crack  of  his  rifle,  and  rush  in  with  wild 
eyes  of  pleasure,  to  behold  his  victim,  ere  his  dying  agonies  are 
over.  We  take  the  fish  by  artful  processes,  so  as  to  prolong  his 
struggles,  so  that  our  delights  shall  be  prolonged  also ;  and  we 
call  the  angler,  "  Gentle  Master  Izaak,"  while  he  details  the  sev- 
eral arts  by  which  a  worm  may  be  made  to  wriggle,  and  a  trout 
may  be  made  to  play,  in  pain.  Our  naturalists  assert  with  won- 
drous pains-taking,  their  own  humanity,  while  they  transfix  the 
living  butterfly ;  and  opinion,  with  us,  sanctions  with  this  defini- 
tion, the  indiscriminate  slaughter  of  innocent  song-bird,  and  beau- 
tiful fly,  and  wondrous  insect,  and  curious  reptile.  Yet  none  of 
these  sports,  which  include  all  the  cruelties  which  belong  to  the 
Spanish  bull-fight,  involve  the  nobler  conditions  with  which  the 
man  engages  in  the  latter.  In  the  bull  fight  he  makes  his  man- 
hood one  of  the  conditions  on  which  he  wages  the  conflict.  He 
perils  life  upon  his  sport.  He  does  not  claim  the  right  to  take 
and  torture  the  life  of  the  animal  without  giving  the  beast  a 
chance  in  the  conflict.  The  inhumanity  in  all  these  practices  is 
pretty  much  the  same ;  but  much  more  may  be  said  in  favor  of 
the  bull-fight  than  of  all  the  rest.  The  stakes  of  the  opposing 
parties  are  equal  in  the  game.  Our  opinion,  in  brief,  is  more 
humane  than  our  humanity.  The  Englishman  and  the  American, 
,  man  or  woman,  who  once  witnesses  a  bull-fight,  discovers  that 
his  tastes  are  superior  in  strength  to  his  morals — that  his  virtues 
hold  but  little  sway  in  the  encounter  with  his  blood — that  his 
opinion  is  unsustained  by  his  resolution — that  his  own  habits  are 
not  a  whit  more  heedful  of  the  claims  of  the  beast,  than  the 
Spaniard's.  He  hunts  one  class,  and  the  Spaniard  another ;  and 
whether  he  hunts  more  virtuously  than  the  Spaniard,  must  be  held 


196  VASCONSELOS. 

very  doubtful  where  he  does  not  hunt  half  so  bravely  or  at  so 
much  peril  to  himself. 

Our  purpose,  however,  hi  these  remarks,  is  not  to  defend  the 
bull-fight  as  a  legitimate  or  proper  amusement  of  men.  We 
simply  design  to  suggest  to  self-deception  a  little  modesty,  and 
to  persuade  cant  to  reconsider  its  pretensions.  Humanity,  no- 
where, is  equal  to  the  encounter  with  temptation.  Opinion,  every- 
where, is  superior  to  humanity ;  and  thus  it  is  that  the  morale  of 
a  community  will  be  superior  to  the  sentiment  in  every  individual 
composing  the  community.  Our  opinion  excuses  our  brutalities, 
while  it  lays  bare  those  of  another  nation.  So  long  as  this  is 
the  common  practice  of  nations,  so  long  shall  we  perpetuate  both. 
Let  us  look  to  what  is  intrinsic,  not  what  is  specious,  and  we 
shall,  perhaps,  discover  that  in  a  comparison  with  our  neighbor 
we  have  no  great  deal  to  boast — and  something,  possibly,  to  lose. 
But  enough. 

The  bull-fight,  as  we  have  said,  appeals  equally  to  all  condi- 
tions, and  to  both  sexes,  among  the  Spaniards.  When  the  sports 
of  the  ring  and  the  Quintain  were  over,  and  it  was  understood 
that  those  which  properly  belonged  to  the  amphitheatre  were  to 
begin,  there  was  a  great  increase  among  the  audience.  The  groups, 
all  of  them,  deserted  the  hills.  Scarce  a  vacant  seat  was  to  be 
£mnd  in  all  the  three  high  tiers  of  scaffolding  which  surrounded 
the  barriers ;  and  the  spectacle  became  very  brilliant,  wild  and 
picturesque,  of  that  great  and  crowded  circle.  Beauty  and 
knighthood  were  there  in  all  their  glory ;  while  the  multitude 
exhibited  every  variety  of  costume  and  character.  The  seats 
were  so  disposed  that  the  entire  person  of  the  spectator  in  every 
quarter  could  be  seen ;  each  accordingly  was  clad  in  the  richest 
dresses  he  could  command.  Banners  and  bannerets  were  waving ; 
cavaliers  wore  their  gaudiest  colors;  jewels  flashed  in  such  near 
connection  with  bright  eyes  that  one  could  scarce  distinguish 
between  them ;  and  ever  and  anon,  long  streaming  flourishes  of 
music,  passionate  phrensies  of  variously  endowed  instruments, 
and  soft,  melancholy  touches,  at  frequent  pauses,  from  simpler 


THE   TOREADOKES.  197 

pipes,  conspired  to  raise  the  emotions,  to  excite  the  sensibilities, 
to  lead  the  hearer  and  spectator  out  entirely  from  that  common 
world  which  swallowed  up  his  ordinary  life  in  one  dreary  mono- 
tony. 

"  Despejo  .'"  was  the  single  word  given  out  by  Don  Balthazar  de 
Alvaro,  as  Corregidor,  or  master  of  ceremonies — equivalent  to 
"  clear  the  field" — "  remove  all  obstructions  from  the  amphi- 
theatre." 

There  is  sufficient  reason  for  this  order,  which  is  always  an  un- 
gracious one  in  the  ears  of  "  the  fancy,"  "  the  swell  mob,"  who 
have  generally  taken  possession  of  the  ring.     They  leave  it  with 
reluctance.     But,  at  the  order  of  the  Corregidor,  the  splendid 
body  of  infantry  which  De  Soto  had  been  training  for  the  Flori- 
da expedition,  marched  in,  to  the  sound  of  martial  music,  and, 
with  horizontal  lances,   swiftly  swept  the  circle.     Their  move- 
ments were   rapid ;    but  the   intruders  retired  slowly,  simply 
clearing  the  barriers,  around  which  they  continued  to  cling,  anx- 
ious to  be  nigh  the  scene ;  to  see  the  minutest  movements  ;  and 
to  take  such  part  in  the  affair  themselves  as  fortune  would  allow 
them  ; — their  delight  being  found  in  beating  the  bull  with  their 
sticks,  or  thrusting  at  him  with  iron-pointed  staves,  from  this 
safe  entrenchment,  whenever  his  course  should  bring  him  suf- 
ficiently nigh  the  barriers.     This  duty  done,  the  infantry  disap- 
peared as  rapidly  as  those  whom  they  had  driven  out.    But  the  ring 
was  not  left  vacant,  for  a  moment.   Their  places  were  soon  occupied 
by  the  Toreadores,  consisting  of  bands  of  Picadores,  of  Chulos  or 
Banderilleros,  and  Ma  tadores.  These  now  move  in  procession  around 
the  area,  showing  themselves  to  the  spectators  ; — the  Picadores, 
in  the  saddle,  armed  with  lances.     They  wear  short  cloaks,  the 
sleeves   of  which  are  partly  laid  open  and  left  loose.     Their 
small-clothes   are  of  leather,  the  legs  coated  with   a   sort  of 
greaves  of  plate  iron ; — shoes  and  stockings  are  concealed  by 
white  gaiters ;  and  a  flat,  broad,  round  hat,  well  ribanded,  com- 
pletes their  costume,   which  is  quite   fanciful  and  jockey-like. 
Not  less  so  is  that  of  men  on  foot,  the  Chulos,  whose  habits  are 
more  costly,  if  not  more  imposing.     Their  silk  vests  are  trimmed 


198  VASCONSELOS. 

with  a  profusion  of  ribands ;  brilliant  scarfs  fall  over  them ;  a 
silken  net-work  confines  the  hair,  in  place  of  which  the  fringes 
of  the  net  stream  down  the  shoulders.  Their  cloaks  are,  some 
of  blue,  and  others  of  scarlet.  In  two  parties  they  cross  the 
arena,  and  make  their  obeisance  to  the  Adelantado.  They  are 
in  all — the  footmen — about  eighteen.  This  includes  a  couple  of 
matadores,  or  killers.  With  these  comes  a  mediespada,  or  half- 
swordsman,  who  is  not  often  wanted.  The  picadores,  or  lancers, 
three  in  number,  follow  them  on  horseback,  in  the  performance 
of  the  act  of  grace  before  the  representative  of  the  throne. 

The  toread,ures  take  their  stations,  and  declare  themselves  in 
readiness.  First,  you  behold  the  picadores.  These  plant  them- 
selves on  one  side  of  the  gate  from  whence  the  bull  is  to  emerge, 
and  at  a  distance  of  twenty -five  or  thirty  paces.  Those  on  foot, 
armed  with  their  short  javelins,  called  banderillos,  meant  to  goad 
and  torture  the  bull,  and  for  their  defence,  their  cloaks  of  blue 
and  scarlet,  take  their  places  also,  ready  to  assist  the  picadores, 
but  along  the  barriers.  A  trumpet  sounds;  an  Alguazil  ad- 
vances, and  receives  from  Don  Balthazar  the  key  of  the  torril, 
or  den  of  the  bull.  The  Adelantado  waves  his  gilded  truncheon ; 
Don  Balthazar  waves  another ;  the  bugles  sound;  wild  shouts  from 
the  multitude  declare  the  acme  of  expectation  to  be  reached,  the 
gate  of  the  torril  is  thrown  open,  a  rush  is  heard ;  and  "  El 
Moro" — "  the  Moor" — the  great  black  bull  of  the  Cuban  moun- 
tains,— himself  a  mountainous  mass  of  bone  and  muscle,  darts 
headlong  upon  the  scene,  and  hushes  all  to  silence. 

He  stops  suddenly ;  throwing  up  his  head.  He  has  passed 
from  darkness  into  sudden  light.  The  unwonted  spectacle  for  a 
moment  confounds  him.  He  looks  up ;  around ;  stares  with 
dilating  eye  on  all  he  sees ;  and  then  you  may  observe  his  tail 
rise,  and  wave,  to  and  fro,  the  hairs  starting  up,  like  those  upon 
his  neck,  and  presenting  a 'ridgy  surface,  a  crested  mane,  show- 
ing his  excitement,  and  gradually  rising  anger.  As  yet,  he 
knows  not  where  to  look.  On  all  sides,  he  sees  so  much  !  But, 
a  tremendous  shout  from  the  multitude  seems  to  decide  him  ; 
and  he  answers  it  with  a  wild  and  sudden  roar.  Then,  quick  as 


THE   BULL   FIGHT.  199 

a  flash,  he  charges  upon  the  nearest  picador.  His  lance  is  ready 
to  receive  him.  He  is  repulsed  ;  he  recoils.  But  not  far ;  and 
with  a  fresh  bound,  he  singles  out  his  second  enemy.  He  also 
meets  him  with  a  cool  front,  and  a  piercing  weapon.  A  second 
time  his  neck  is  gored ;  but  he  darts  upon  the  third  picador; 
only  to  meet  a  fresh  repulse!  He  has  felt  his  enemy;  and  is 
either  cowed  or  taught  by  his  experience.  Which  1  We  shall  see. 
He  recoils  from  all,  receding  slowly:  his  eyes  gleaming  now 
with  lire ;  his  neck  and  shoulders  streaming  with  blood ;  his  head 
to  the  ground,  as  if  with  a  heretofore-unknown  feeling  of  humility. 
But  do  you  think  that  he  is  humbled  ?  No  !  He  is  only  roused, 
— only  contracting  himself  to  spring ;  gathering  his  muscles  into 
fold  ;  gathering  up  his  soul  for  newer  effort,  and  growing  mo- 
mently more  and  more  vicious  and  dangerous  from  his  forbear- 
ance !  Some  of  the  spectators  are  deceived ;  as  half  the  world 
is  apt  to  judge  and  decide  from  first  impressions,  and  because  of 
their  ignorance ! 

"  A  cow !  a  cow !"  is  the  cry — "  set  the  dogs  upon  him  !" 
"  Ah  !  que  !  no  vale  na  /"  "  The  beast  is  worth  nothing.  He  is 
a  cow  !" 

"  A  cow,  indeed  !"  cries  the  experienced  mountaineer,  who  bet- 
ter knows  the  signs  which  the  brute  exhibits.  "  Disparate  ! — 
nonsense  !  Let  me  see  the  man  who  will  milk  that  cow !" 

He  is  right.  "El  Moro"  is  a  hero,  and  has  sense  as  well  as 
strength.  He  has  felt  his  enemy;  he  begins  to  know  him.  The 
picadores  understand  him  better  than  the  mob.  They  note  his 
immense  frame, — the  great  head, — the  enormous  breadth  of 
neck, — the  huge  breast,  like  a  rampart,  which  he  spreads  before 
them  ;  the  wonderful  compactness  of  his  whole  figure.  They  see 
the  lurking  devil  in  his  dilating  eyes,  looking  up,  .though  his 
horns  seem  directed  only  to  the  ground.  They  note  other  signs 
which  escape  the  populace,  and  they  prepare  themselves,  with 
nil  their  address,  for  a  second  assault.  Their  horses,  which  have 
heard  the  roar  of  the  bull,  are  trembling  beneath  them.  They 
do  not  see  the  animal,  as  they  have  been  blinded,  the  better  to 
make  them  submit  to  the  rein ;  but  they  feel  their  terrors  the 


200  VASCONSELOS. 

more.  They  are  not  the  broken  hackneys  which  arc  employed 
in  the  cities  of  modern  Spain,  not  worth  their  forage  ; — but  brave 
steeds,  of  fearless  foresters,  who.  have  taken  up  the  business  of 
the  torero,  con  amore.  Sleek  of  skin,  large  of  frame,  slender  of 
limb,  with  small  heads,  arching  necks,  bright,  round,  dilating 
eyes,  clean  fetlocks  !  You  see  that  they  come  of  Arabian  stocks, 
and  are  not  unworthy  to  carry  fearless  riders  against  the  bull. 
They  tremble,  but  they  obey.  The  picador,  meanwhile,  carries 
his  well-chosen  lance  beneath  his  right  arm.  He  keeps  a  wary 
eye  upon  his  enemy.  He  knows  that  he  is  to  be  expected ; — 
that  he  must  come ; — that  the  struggle  has  not  well  begun,  and 
that  it  will  require  his  utmost  skill  to  conquer — and  escape! 
He  does  not  mistake  the  ominous  aspect  in  the  sign  of  Taurus ! 
He  has  not  read  the  Zodiac  of  the  ampitheatre  in  vain.  '  These 
are  all  old  stagers,  these  picadores.  Each  has  a  reputation  to 
lose.  They  are  known  by  name  among  the  multitude,  and  these 
names  have  been  cried  aloud,  already,  by  more  than  a  hundred 
voices,  in  recognition  and  encouragement.  "  Bravo  !  Pepe  !" 
"Bravo!  little  Juan!"  "Bravo!  Francisco  Dias!"  "Now 
shall  we  see  which  of  you  all  will  pluck  la  devisa  from  the  neck 
of  El  Moro"  "  La  devisa "  is  a  ribbon  about  the  bull's  neck, 
containing  the  name  of  his  breeder. 

"  Which  of  you  has  a  mistress  with  eyes  worthy  of  a  death  ? 
Bravo !  good  fellows !  Let  us  see !" 

The  allusion,  here,  is  to  the  practice  of  the  picador,  whose 
object  it  is  to  snatch  away  the  ribbon  as  a  trophy  for  his  sweet- 
heart. This  is  a  great  point  gained  ;  and  a  difficult  one.  The 
Bull,  who  is  well  aware  of  the  honor  of  the  thing,  is,  of  course, 
always  careful  to  resent,  with  particular  malice,  every  such 
attempt  upon  the  badge  which  proves  his  honorable  breeding. 
It  requires  rare  agility — which,  in  such  a  conflict,  implies  rare 
courage — to  achieve  the  object. 

But  the  crowd  is  clamorous.  They  are  impatient  at  the  delay 
of  "  El  Moro."  They  regard  him  as  too  lymphatic.  They 
shout  to  him  their  scorn,  and  some  endeavor  to  assail  him,  from 
behind  the  barriers,  with  strokes  of  the  chivata,  or  porro,  sticks 


EL  MORO.  201 

terminating  in  knobs,  with  which  every  rascal  of  the  crowd  goes 
properly  armed  to  the  circus.  Their  auxiliary  assaults,  in  fact, 
are  legitimated,  and  constitute  a  fair  part  of  the  exhibition. 
.They  contribute  greatly  to  goad  a  timid  animal  to  the  necessary 
degree  of  desperation,  work  him  up  to  madness ;  when,  no 
longer  dreading  the  prick  of  the  lance,  though  it  buries  itself  an 
inch  deep  in  the  flesh,  he  plunges  headlong  upon  his  enemies, 
not  to  be  again  baffled  in  the  assault,  not  to  be  turned  aside ; 
and  throwing  all  his  brute  force  into  one  concentrated  effort,  puts 
the  picadores  to  all  their  arts  for  safety. 

"El  Moro"  is  a  bull  of  blood.  He  is  a  bull  of  discretion 
also.  He  has  only  paused  to  meditate  in  what  manner  to  use 
his  force  against  the  skill  of  his  enemies.  He  has  concluded  his 
plans ;  and,  with  a  terrible  snort,  which  ends  in  a  roar,  he  rushes 
again  upon  the  picadores.  They  meet  him  handsomely,  their 
horses'  heads  a  little  turned  on  one  side,  their  spears  delivered 
dexterously,  piercing  the  neck  and  shoulders  of  the  beast.  This 
is  no  pleasant  sort  of  salutation.  It  is  apt  to  turn  off  ten  bulls 
in  the  dozen.  They  all  remember,  with  keen  sensibilities,  the 
garrocha,  or  goad,  by  which  the  herdsmen  have  initiated  them  in 
the  lessons  of  obedience.  "El  Moro"  has  not  lost  his  sensibili- 
ties, or  his  memories;  but  "El  Moro"  has  a  prescience  which 
tells  him  that  he  is  doomed ;  and  that  to  feel  the  pricks  too 
keenly  now,  is  only  to  prolong  his  tortures.  He,  accordingly, 
resolves  to  "come  up  to  the  scratch"  valiantly.  Skulking,  he 
perceives,  will  avail  him  nothing.  He  must  die,  and  he  will  not 
die  feebly.  The  spear-point  is  in  his  neck  deep,  deep ;  and  the 
blood  spirts  high,  and  crimsons  his  great  swart  breast  and  shoul- 
ders. But  he  resolves  not  to  feel  his  hurts.  He  does  not 
swerve  :  he  plunges  headlong  forward  ;  head  downward  ;  horns 
tossing  and  tail  erect,  and  shaking  to  and  fro  like  that  of  the  lion 
in  his  bound,  or  the  serpent  in  his  coil. 

'•'•Bravo  toro !  Bravo  El  Moro!"  is  the  delighted  roar  of  the 
multitude,  as  they  witness  his  spirit.  The  horsemen  turn  about 
like  lightning;  the  first  darts  aside,  with  excellent  skill,  and  sweeps 
out  of  the  track. 

9* 


202  VASCONSELOS. 

"  Bravo,  Pepc !"  cry  the  mob,  as  they  witness  this  dexterity  of 
the  first  of  the picadores;  but  the  bull  sweeps  on;  he  receives 
the  spear-point  of  the  second  of  his  foes  ;  but  his  own  irresistible 
rush,  his  own  headlong  bulk,  prevents  his  recoil  now,  even  if  his 
spirit  quailed  beneath  the  wound :  but  it  does  not.  The  pi- 
cador tries  to  wheel  and  escape  his  assault,  but  too  late : — the 
horns  of  "  El  Moro"  are  already  buried  in  the  flank  of  the  steed ; 
he  rends  his  sides,  snaps  the  defensive  ribs  like  glass ;  steed  and 
rider  roll  over  upon  the  plain,  the  latter  upon  the  oft-side  of  the 
animal.  The  body  of  the  horse  constitutes  his  rampart  for  a 
moment.  It  is  a  fearful  moment.  Life  and  death  hang  on  it. 
An  awful  hush  envelops  the  amphitheatre ;  women  shriek, 
men  shout  and  swear ;  heads  peer  over  each  other ;  eyes  are 
starting  almost  from  their  sockets  ;  anxiety  and  appetite,  fear  and 
hope,  horror  and  delight,  are  in  wondrous  strife  in  the  multitu- 
dinous soul  of  the  assembly.  Every  body  looks  to  see  the  bull 
dash  down  upon  the  prostrate  horse  and  rider.  The  latter  lies 
close  and  quiet,  expecting  the  assault :  his  hope  of  escape  is  in 
his  insignificance.  But  "El  Moro"  is  a  bull  of  magnanimity — a 
heroic  bull,  worthy  of  the  fierce  and  fearless  race  after  whom 
they  have  named  him.  He  disdains  to  touch  the  fallen  victim. 
He  spurns  the  sands  anew;  he  dashes  after  the  remaining  pica- 
dores, who  course  round  the  amphitheatre,  dexterously  avoiding  his 
charge,  and  seeking  to  double  upon  and  wound  him  anew  at  ev- 
ery chance.  Wonderful  is  the  skill  they  exhibit,  and  great  is  the 
cheering  which  they  receive.  Both  bull  and  picador  receive  it 
equally ;  nothing  can  be  more  fair  than  the  applause ;  it  is  equally 
merited :  and  gratitude  for  the  sport  alone  requires  that  merit 
should  be  equally  acknowledged.  '•'•Bravo  torof"  '•'•Bravo  Pica- 
dor r  "Bravo Little  Juan!"  "Bravo  Moro!"  These  and  simi- 
lar cries  are  heard  from  all  quarters  of  the  ring. 

But  "El  Moro"  is  not  content  to  share  hi«  fame  with  others, 
— he  is  greedy  of  glory.  Another  picador  is  overthrown ;  horse 
and  man  roll  on  the  earth.  Little  Juan,  who  won  the  bravos 
lately,  is  scrambling  over  the  barriers,  partly  assisted  in  the 
effort  by  the  black  brows  of  the  bull  himself — his  horns  just  miss 


THE  BULL'S  PROWESS.  203 

ing  the  haunches  of  the  horseman,  and  grazing  the  barriers.  It 
was  a  narrow  escape.  The  horse  of  the  picador  flies  wild,  with 
his  entrails  hanging  from  a  horrid  wound  in  the  belly.  The  bull 
pursues ;  at  every  bound  he  goads  the  blinded  and  terrified  ani- 
mal anew.  Both  are  covered  with  blood.  " Mira!"  cries  the 
"fancy" — the  "-swell  mob"  from  the  corridor, — "Mira!  quebel 
cuerpo  de  sangreT"1  "  See  !  see !  what  a  beauteous  body  of  blood  !" 

Thus  goring  as  he  goes,  himself  covered  with  gore,  snorting 
with  fury,  his  eyes  like  red  fires,  flashing  in  flight,  his  mouth  full 
of  foam  and  blood,  his  head  tossing  wildly,  the  blood  and  lather 
covering  his  whole  body,  the  bull  keeps  on  his  way  of  terror, 
ripping  and  rending  the  wounded  and  agonized  horse,  until,  with 
a  terrific  roar  and  eifort,  he  fairly  lifts  the  victim  from  the  earth, 
dashes  him  down  upon  the  sands,  and  strikes  his  hoofs  on  his  neck, 
as  he  bounds  over  him  in  pursuit  of  the  remaining  picador. 

There  is  no  parleying  with  so  headstrong  a  brute  as  that.  There 
is  no  baffling  him.  He  is  not  to  be  deluded  of  his  proper  prey. 
He  is  not  the  fool  to  put  nose  to  the  ground,  as  ordinary  bulls 
do,  wasting  his  fury  upon  the  enemies  he  has  already  over- 
thrown. The  fallen  horse  or  horseman  attracts  none  of  his  atten- 
tion. He  sees  and  seeks  him  only  who  is  on  foot,  in  motion ; 
and  he  gives  the  surviving  picador  no  respite.  Never  was 
bull  so  determined,  and  so  sensible.  He  is  not  merely  a  hero, 
he  is  a  general ;  and  the  audience  is  duly  sensible  of  his  wonder- 
ful merits.  They  shout  their  vivas  on  every  hand.  "  Long  live 
El  Moro  /"  he  whom  they  have  yet  resolved  shall  die  that  very 
day.  "  Bravo  toro  !  Bravo  Moor !"  They  toss  their  hands  aloft ; 
they  fling  up  their  caps ;  porros  and  chivatas  thunder  their  ap- 
plauses against  the  barriers.  "  El  Moro"  seems  aware  of  their 
applause,  and  resolute  still  better  to  deserve  it.  He  gives  the 
picador  no  moment  of  delay.  He  is  upon  him.  The  steed 
doubles  with  wondrous  dexterity,  and  eludes  the  shock ;  and  he 
now  receives  the  vivas.  But  the  bull  is  almost  equally  alert. 
His  evolutions  are  as  sudden  as  his  rage  is  high.  He  wheels, — 
another  bound,  the  lance  of  the  picador  but  grazes  him;  the 
horse  darts  away  but  the  bull  is  at  his  haunches,  and  rends  him 


204:  VASCONSELOS. 

— a  terrible  gash — in  the  rear.  Bleeding  and  torn,  the  steed 
staggers  forward,  when  a  new  thrust  sends  him  over,  and  the  rider 
flings  himself  off  on  the  opposite  side,  to  escape  the  inveterate 
assailant.  It  is  a  moment  of  extreme  peril ;  every  soul  is  hushed 
almost  to  stifling  in  the  assembly ;  and  now  the  chulos  with  their 
gaudy  cloaks  come  fluttering  upon  the  scene.  They  are  to  divert 
the  bull  from  his  victim.  They  glide  between,  almost  like  shapes 
of  air.  The  red  shawls  flare  before  the  eyes  of  El  Moro.  But 
El  Moro  is  none  of  your  common  bulls.  He  is  not  to  be  per- 
suaded that  the  shawl  can  work  him  injury.  He  has  no  vulgar 
bull-hostility  to  crimson.  He  darts  at  the  chulo,  and  not  his  shawl. 
The  banderillo  flies — a  little  dart,  ornamented  with  colored  and 
gilded  paper — and  sticks  into  his  neck.  Another  is  planted  di- 
rectly opposite,  buried  deeply  in  the  flesh.  A  third,  a  fourth, 
until  the  beast  is  fairly  covered  with  these  proofs  of  the  dexter- 
ity of  his  new  assailants,  who  trip  along  like  dancing-masters 
about  the  scene ;  relying  upon  their  wonderful  agility  to  dart 
aside  from  his  wild  and  passionate  plunges.  They  scatter  at  his 
approach.  He  drives  them  to  the  barriers,  over  which  the  res- 
cued picador  has  just  clambered  with  a  show  of  pain  and  labor, 
that  proves  he  has  not  gone  through  the  fray  unscathed.  There 
is  a  rent  in  his  leathern  breeches ;  there  is  an  exceedingly  sore  place 
beneath  it.  But  the  chulos  are  dispersed, — El  Moro  remains  the 
lord  of  the  arena.  He  stamps  as  if  for  a  new  enemy ;  he  roars 
as  if  in  triumph !  He  darts,  seeing  no  moving  object,  at  those 
which  lie  still  or  writhing  upon  the  plain.  He  tramples  the  gay 
mantles  ;  he  rends  the  prostrate  and  still  struggling  horse.  Ho 
is  impatient  that  they  offer  no  resistance ;  for  the  goads  still  tear 
his  neck  and  sides,  and  the  wounds  are  a  ceaseless  torture.  The 
amphitheatre  rings  with  applauses  of  his  prowess ;  but  this  sub- 
sides, and  the  appetite  of  the  multitude  craves  a  renewal  of  the 
excitement. 

"  Cabalhs!  Caballos  al  torof"  is  the  cry.  More  horses  are 
required  for  the  bull.  New  champions  appear  upon  the  scene ; 
and  the  battle  is  renewed.  But  we  must  not  enter  now  upon 
details ;  "  El  Moro  "  maintains  his  reputation.  Another  horse  is 


THE  MATADOR. 

slain — another  wounded — two  riders  are  hurt  with  broken  ribs, 
and  the  chulos  again  scatter  themselves  over  the  area  for  the  res- 
cue of  the  third.  "  El  Moro"  scatters  them  in  turn :  but  he  is 
exhausted  by  his  victories.  Covered  with  wounds,  he  staggers  in 
the  centre  of  the  ring.  His  eye  grows  filmy,  his  head  droops, 
his  tail — but  he  is  thus  far  the  conqueror,  and  there  is  a  moment 
of  silent  admiration  in  tribute  to  his  prowess.  But  the  signs 
show  that  he  can  make  no  more  sport.  He  has  done  all  that  bull 
could  do  for  the  popular  holiday ;  and  nothing  remains  but  to 
administer  the  coup  de  grace,  and  bring  on  his  successors.  The 
trumpet  sounds.  The  matador — the  killer — appears  alone  upon 
the  scene.  On  his  appearance,  with  lifted  cap,  he  makes  his  obei- 
sance to  the  Adelantado.  In  his  right  hand  he  holds  a  long  toledo 
— a  beautiful  rapier,  of  the  best  temper — in  his  left  hand  he  waves 
a  little  red  flag,  not  much  larger  than  a  handkerchief,  called  the 
muleta.  He  receives  the  permission  which  he  requires.  "  El 
Moro's  "  death-warrant  is  given  out. 

The  matador  exhibits  the  grace  of  a  posture-master,  with  all 
the  coolness  of  the  executioner.  He  turns  towards  the  victim, 
and  advances  slowly.  He  is  pale ;  looks  anxious ;  is  evidently 
wary.  Well  he  may  be.  Such  an  adversary,  showing  as  much 
cunning  as  courage,  is  not  often  to  be  met.  The  matador  stops, 
and  with  all  the  coolness  of  which  he  is  capable,  surveys  the  foe. 
He  is  a  judge  of  character,  and  bulls  have  a  character  that  re- 
quires to  be  studied.  Antonio  Pico  also  has  a  character  at  stake. 
He  is  greatly  renowned  among  the  Cubans.  He  has  slain  his 
hundreds,  and  he  must  show  himself  worthy  of  his  renown.  His 
movements  were  at  once  graceful  and  decided ;  and  his  thrusts 
were  as  swift  as  dexterous.  He  was  the  master  of  his  art.  But, 
sometimes,  the  master  fails,  and  Pico  was  now  evidently  cautious. 
It  is  a  duel  which  he  is  about  to  fight.  The  bull  is  still  danger- 
ous— his  rage  is  still  deadly.  He  has  lost  his  energy,  but  not 
his  malice.  Pico  has  no  shield,  nothing  but  the  muleta,  and  his 
beautiful  rapier.  His  ball  dress  of  silk,  satin  and  ribbon,  is  at 
strange  variance  with  the  duty  to  be  done ;  but  that  is  one  of  the 
charming  features  of  the  performance.  He  commands  himself; 


206  VASCONSELOS. 

restrains  himself;  a  thousand  eyes  are  upon  him ;  he  knows  it, 
but  he  s<>es  nothing  but  the  eyes  of  the  bull.  Their  tame,  filmy 
expression  does  not  deceive  him.  He  fancies  that  "  El  Moro " 
understands  the  whole  proceeding,  what  is  to  be  done,  and  what 
is  to  be  feared ;  and  that  he  is  preparing  himself  with  more  than 
bull  subtlety,  to  make  a  fearful  fight  of  it.  It  must  be  subtlety 
uow,  opposed  to  subtlety ; — the  wisdom  of  the  man  to  the  excit- 
ed instincts  of  the  beast.  The  expectation  is,  that  the  bull  will 
run  at  the  red  flag ;  when  the  matador  will  receive  him  at  the 
point  of  the  weapon,  which  pierces  him  between  the  shoulder  and 
the  bone  blade.  If  the  bull  has  much  spirit  left,  he  will  do  this. 
The  presumption  is,  if  he  will  not,  that  he  succumbs  to  his  fate — 
that  his  energies  are  exhausted. 

Pico  waves  his  muleta  in  front  of  the  animal.  "  El  Moro  " 
makes  a  single  charge,  but  recoils — stops  short,  and  stands  with 
head  down,  as  if  in  waiting.  A  shout  of  contempt,  from  the 
"  fancy,"  assails  him  for  this  ignoble  conduct.  It  encourages  Pi- 
co. He  advances,  waves  the  flag  anew ;  again  the  bull  charges ; 
the  steel  flashes,  quick  as  lightning ; — strikes ; — strikes ; — all  see ; — 
but  it  is  an  awkward  stroke !  Pico's  nerves  have  been  troubled. 
The  steel  strikes  the  bone  ; — it  flies  from  the  hand  of  the  matador ; 
and,  with  a  roar,  the  recovering  bull  is  upon  him,  with  a  dreadful 
griding  sweep.  The  brave  fellow  darts  aside,  but  not  unhurt. 
He  staggers, — he  makes  for  the  barriers :  the  cunning  "  El 
Moro,"  with  brightening  eye,  surges  after  him.  The  suspense  is 
awful ;  the  women  scream ;  the  men  shout ;  the  matador  staggers 
forward  to  the  barriers;  falls,  without  catching  them;  and,  but  a 
moment  remains  for  escape !  a  terrible  anxiety  prevails.  In  that 
moment,  a  gigantic  form  leaps  over  the  barriers  from  the  corri- 
dor. He  is  dark  like  the  red  man.  He  is  of  that  race,  mixed 
with  the  white  and  the  negro, — a  most  unnatural  and  atrocious 
combination.  But  what  he  is,  no  one  as  yet  can  distinguish. 
They  see  nothing  clearly.  They  only  know  that  he  stands  be- 
tween the  fallen  Pico  and  the  charging  El  Moro.  They  see  a 
common  red  kerchief  waving  in  one  hand.  They  see  not 
the  short,  sharp  knife  in  the  other.  They  see,  however,  that  he 


THE   END  OF  EL  MORO.  207 

has  succeeded  in  diverting  the  wrath  of  the  bull,  from  the  pros- 
trate matador,  to  himself.  A  moment  more,  and  the  plunging 
animal  stands  where  the  stranger  challenged.  He  has  darted 
aside  like  an  arrow,  leaving  his  kerchief  upon  the  horns  of  the 
bull,  and  waving  before  his  eyes.  The  animal  shakes  his  head, 
and  thrusts  it  down.  In  that  moment  the  stranger  advances  si- 
lently. A  flash  is  seen ;  and  the  machete  is  fatally  buried  be- 
tween the  shoulders  of  El  Moro.  A  hoarse  sound  issues  from 
the  nostrils  of  the  mighty  beast,  and  he  sinks  forward,  the  life 
gone  forever,  on  the  spot  where  he  had  stood  terribly,  but  the 
instant  before ! 

The  crowd  is  relieved.  They  shout  their  gratification,  and  the 
"  swell  mob  "  without  are  particularly  rejoiced  with  the  exquisite 
feat  of  arms  performed  by  one  from  among  themselves.  Scarcely 
was  the  deed  done,  however,  when  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro,  in 
a  whisper  to  the  sergeant  of  the  guard,  said, — 

"  Let  that  man  who  slew  the  bull  be  taken  into  custody.  Let 
it  be  done  secretly,  so  as  not  to  cause  confusion.  Set  a  watch 
upon  his  footsteps,  and  when  the  crowd  is  dispersed,  clap  him 
up.  He  is  a  slave — an  outlaw — the  notorious  outlaw,  Mateo 
Morillo — slave  of  the  estate  of  my  niece.  He  has  been  in  the 
mountains  for  two  years..  See  that  you  secure  him.  There  is  a 
good  reward  to  be  got  by  his  captivity  !  " 

The  sergeant  promised  obedience  ;  but  when  he  looked  into  the 
amphitheatre,  the  man,  Mateo  Morillo,  had  disappeared  among 
the  throng.  He  sought  for  him  that  day  in  vain. 

NOTE. — For  much  of  the  detail  in  this  chapter  respecting  the  sports  of 
the  Spanish  amphitheatre.  I  am  indebted  to  the  volumes  of  Roscoe,  Ford, 
and  the  highly  interesting  and  spirited  sketches  of  Spain  by  our  own 
countryman,  Mr.  S.  T.  Wallis,  of  Maryland. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

"  The  knight  of  the  Redcrosse,  when  him  he  spide, 

Spurring  so  hole  with  rage  dispiteous, 
'Gan  fairely  couch  his  speare,  and  towards  ride  : 

Soone  meete  they  both,  both  fell  and  furious, 
That,  daunted  with  their  forces  hideous, 

Their  steeds  doe  stagger,  and  amazed  stand  ; 
And  eke  themselves,  too  rudely  rigorous, 

Astonied  with  the  stroke  of  their  owne  hand, 
Doe  backe  rebutte,  and  each  to  other  yealdeth  land." 

THE  day's  sports  were  by  no  means  ended  with  the  death  of 
M  El  Moro."  Other  bulls  were  brought  into  the  ring,  and  sev- 
eral fierce  fights  followed,  marked  by  sundry  vicissitudes  and 
casualties.  No  less  than  six  bulls  perished  before  the  day  was 
over ;  and  twice  this  number  of  horses  were  more  or  less  seri- 
ously hurt.  Three  were  killed  outright.  As  many  of  the 
toreadores  went  off — were  carried  off,  rather — with  shattered  ribs; 
so  that,  all  things  considered,  the  sports  were  highly  satisfactory 
to  the  people.  That  night  there  was  merry-making  in  all  quar- 
ters of  the  city.  The  houses  everywhere  were  thrown  open  for 
the  reception  of  guests.  The  country  cousins  were  made  wel- 
come. The  voluptuous  dances  of  the  Spaniard  succeeded  to  the 
feast,  and  were  prolonged  through  the  night.  Wild  and  senti- 
mental music  burst  from  balcony  and  verandah,  and  the  guitar 
tinkled  sweetly  in  the  groves  of  lime  and  orange.  Olivia  de 
Alvaro  spent  the  night  in  the  palace  of  the  Adelantado,  who 
entertained  a  large  party.  But  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  though 
invited,  was  not  among  the  guests.  Where  is  he  ?  Why  is  he 
not  present1?  These  were  the  questions  which  Olivia  uncon- 
sciously asked  herself.  Andres,  his  brother,  was  there ;  stern 
and  gloomy ;  but  he  did  not  approach  her.  She  danced  and  sang 

208 


THE   SECOND   DAY'S   SPORTS.  209 

at  the  entreaty,  or  rather  the  command,  of  the  Lady  Isabella ; 
but  her  heart  was  neither  with  the  music  nor  the  dance.  She 
went  through  the  performances  mechanically,  sick  at  soul,  and 
longing  to  be  away  out  of  the  painful  glare  of  lights  and  com- 
pany, and  buried  in  the  deep  shadows  of  her  domestic  groves. 
We  have  no  scene  to  exhibit,  no  picture  to  portray  of  the  per- 
sons or  events  of  this  night.  We  hurry  to  the  performances  of 
the  day  following,  which  more  immediately  concern  our  pro- 
gress. 

The  spectacle  of  the  second  day  promised  to  exceed  the  first, 
in  its  splendor  and  state,  if  not  in  its  attractions.  It  is  doubtful, 
indeed,  if  any  exhibition,  short  of  battle  itself,  could,  in  that  day, 
furnish  attractions  to  the  Spanish  people  to  compare  with  those 
of  the  bull-fight.  This  was  a  strife  of  certain  danger  and  fre- 
quent loss  of  life.  There  must  be  bloodshed  ;  terrible  wounds, 
great  suffering,  prolonged  agonies,  and  momently  increasing  ex- 
citement. In  proportion  to  the  anxiety,  the  peril,  the  blood  and 
agony,  were  the  joys  of  the  spectacle.  But  the  tournament  was 
only  a  picture  of  strife ;  gentle  passages  of  arms  and  joyous,  as 
the  heralds  described  it ;  and,  though  full  of  noble  displays,  of 
grace,  spirit,  strength,  skill  and  admirable  horsemanship,  it  yet 
failed,  usually,  to  provoke  those  intense  anxieties  which  charac- 
terized the  conflicts  of  the  bull  with  the  toreadores.  But  bulls 
are  not  to  be  slaughtered  every  day.  The  operation  is  an  ex- 
pensive one.  The  owners  of  fine  horses  do  not  very  often  wish 
to  peril  their  ribs  in  the  circus ;  and  even  the  sorry  hack  has  his 
value,  to  be  considered  after  the  first  flush  of  excitement  is  over. 
The  bull-fight,  though  the  great  passion  of  the  Spaniards,  is  not, 
for  these  reasons,  an  affair  of  frequent  occurrence.  One  day  for 
this  amusement  was  held  quite  sufficient  for  reasonable  people ; 
and  the  "swell  mob"  were  accordingly  compelled  to  put  up 
with  the  (to  them)  inferior  spectacle  of  deeds  of  chivalry. 

With  the  first  flashings  of  the  morning  sunlight  upon  bright 
shield  and  glittering  lance,  a  sweet,  wild,  prolonged  and  inspirit- 
ing burst  of  music  issued  from  the  amphitheatre,  announcing  the 
resumption  of  the  sports.  A  thousand  bosoms  thrilled  with 


210  VASCONSELOS. 

delight,  and  a  thousand  voices  hailed  the  signal  with  triumphant 
shouts.  The  sounds  and  clamors  from  the  spacious  area  were 
echoed  back  from  all  the  little  hills  around.  They  were  all  in 
motion  at  the  music,  and  clapping  their  hands  with  joy.  Soon, 
the  fierce  bray  of  the  trumpet  was  heard  mingling  wildly  with 
sweeter  music.  Anon  came  the  roll  of  the  drum ;  and  steeds 
neighed,  and  squires  shouted,  and  the  mountain  peasant  began 
to  sing,  in  his  exulting  unconsciousness,  the  rude  ballads  of  his 
distant  forests.  There  was  shouting  and  clamor  on  every  side ; 
and  the  rushing  of  crowds,  and  the  din  of  conflicting  sounds, 
might  have  led  the  unadvised  spectator  to  suppose  that  chaos 
had  come  again,  so  extreme  was  the  confusion.  But  in  all  this 
confusion  the  truncheon  of  command  prevailed.  So  well  had 
everything  been  organized  by  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro,  and  so 
native  were  such  exercises  to  the  multitude,  that  no  conflict  or 
disorder  followed,  where  all  things  appeared  to  promise  nothing 
less.  The  people  knew  their  places ;  the  officials  their  business. 
The  heralds,  and  pursuivants,  and  alguazils  were  all  in  sufficient 
number  and  sufficiently  active.  But,  where  the  popular  consent 
is  with  the  given  purpose,  it  is  surprising  how  multitudes  work 
together  to  the  common  end.  The  officers  skirted  the  barriers 
within  as  well  as  without,  and  kept  them  free  from  encroach- 
ment ;  and,  gradually,  the  throngs,  pressing  forward  like  crowd- 
ing billows  of  the  sea,  subsided  calmly  into  their  places  along 
the  galleries.  The  seats  were  filled  as  if  by  magic.  The  family 
groups,  or  special  parties,  each  unobstructed  in  its  wish  to  keep 
together,  formed  so  many  little  domestic  circles  along  the  im- 
mensely crowded  tiers ;  and  the  hum  and  buzz  of  conversation, 
free  and  unembarrassed  as  in  private  homes,  went  on.  The 
merry  laugh,  and  the,  smart  jest,  and  the  careless  comment,  were 
uttered  aloud,  as  if  none  but  friendly  hearers  were  at  hand  to 
listen.  It  is  a  common  error  that  the  Spaniard  is  inflexible  as 
well  as  proud.  This  is  only  true  of  a  high  state  of  convention 
in  the  old  communities.  In  the  new  world,  where  all  were 
adventurers,  even  nobility  threw  off  some  of  its  reserves,  and 
accommodated  itself  to  a  more  democratic  condition  of  things ; — 


THE  SPECTATORS.  211 

i  result,  indeed,  inevitable  from  the  necessities  of  the  region.  But 
bo  our  progress. 

Suddenly,  the  bands  struck  up  the   national  air,  and  this  was 

;he  signal  for  the  approach  and  entrance  of  the  Adelantado,  the 

lohle  knights  and  ladies  who  immediately  attended   him  and 

•vely  wife,  and  such  favorites  as  were  specially  invited  to  the 

UK  ire  elevated  platform  which  was   assigned  to  the  representa- 

e  nt'  majesty.  This  platform,  it  may  be  well  to  state,  though 
•irvated  above  the  lower  ranges  of  the  seats  assigned  to  the  mul- 
titude, was  yet  somewhat  nearer  to  the  circus.  It  was  immedi- 
i  ly  above  the  corridor,  which,  in  all  other  parts  of  the  area, 
was  uncovered.  Indeed,  it  seemed  to  hang  almost  over  the  lists, 
iiul  was  not  so  high  but  that  it  might  be  easily  touched  by  a 
in  the  hands  of  a  knight  on  horseback.  Along  this  platform, 
iinl  in  the  foreground,  on  well  and  richly  cushioned  seats,  the 
-  were  seated,  occupying  preferred  places ;  the  gallants  iu 
ittendance  taking  position  in  the  rear.  In  the  centre  of  this 
•  inner  range,  sate  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro,  acting  as  warder; 
iiul  immediately  behind,  but  on  a  dais  above  him,  occupying  a 
.•i<  lily  garmented  fauteuil,  sate  the  Adelantado  and  his  lady. 
With  the  entrance  of  the  two  last,  the  vivas  became  wilder  than 
the  music,  and  De  Soto  bowed  impressively  and  gracefully  to 
!iu'  popular  applause.  His  noble  form  and  princely  carriage,  the 
splendor  of  his  costume,  and  a  proper  regard  to  the  immense 
amount  of  patronage  which  he  had  brought  to  the  island,  made 
him  a  wonderful  favorite.  Nor  was  his  noble  wife  less  so.  She 
had  virtues,  indeed,  superior  to  his,  though  of  a  less  showy  char- 
acter ;  and  her  personal  beauty,  her  noble  carriage,  the  richness 
and  exquisite  taste  of  her  dress,  the  equal  grace  and  dignity  of 
her  bearing,  served  to  make  her  an  object  of  like  and  equal  at- 
traction with  her  lord.  They  took  their  seats,  and  the  example 
was  followed  by  those  who  accompanied  them.  When  the 
places  were  all  filled,  the  spectacle  was  one  of  wonderful  bril- 
liancy and  beauty.  The  seats  were  so  constructed  as  to  show 
most  of  the  persons  of  those  who  occupied  the  front,  and  these 
were  all  naturally  solicitous  to  appear  in  their  richest  habits. 


212  VASCONSELOS. 

Olivia  de  Alvaro  occupied  one  of  these  foremost  seats,  near  1 
uncle,  and  a  little  below,  but  quite  close  to,  the  Lady  Isabel 
She  too  was  splendidly  habited  ;  but  she  was  perhaps  the  le 
conscious  of  the  fact  of  all  in  that  assembly.     She  had   ma 
her  toilet  with  little  heart  for  it,  and  little  heed  to  appearauc 
Her  thoughts  were  of  the  saddest ;  and  her  face  now  was  p; 
as  death.     There  was  a  brightness,  however,  in  her  eye,  of  s 
gular  wildness,  and  occasionally  it  flashed  out  with  a  vivid  a 
peculiar  intelligence.     But  she  seldom  trusted  herself  to  g£ 
about  the  amphitheatre.     She  seemed  to  dread  the  encounl 
with  other  eyes.     Beside  her  sate  the  frail,  fair  beauty,  the  w 
of  Nuno  de  Tobar,  whose  little  tongue  kept  up  a  surprising  d 
charge  of  small  arms,   without  intermission.     Her  supply 
missiles  seemed  inexhaustible,  and  as  they  were  mostly  address 
to  the  ears  of  Olivia,  it  is  not  a  matter  of  wonder  if  she  had  nothi 
to  say  in  return.     The  lack  of  opportunity,  indeed,  was  rath 
grateful  than  otherwise.     It  saved  her  from  all  necessity  of  fin 
ing  apologies  for  her  taciturnity.     Behind  Olivia  stood  the  pi 
vincial  courtier,  Don  Augustin  de  Sinolar,  redolent  of  perfurr 
and  diffuse  and  gay  in  silks  and  glitter.     There  were  other  g; 
lants  in  waiting :    but  we  must  not  stop  to  enumerate.     Tl 
anxiety  of  the  multitude  has  brought  them  to  that  hush  of  e 
pectation  which,  even  more  than  military  authority,  is  the  be 
security  for  order.     The  Adelantado,  like  every  good  actor,  we 
understood  the  impropriety  of  keeping  the  stage  waiting.     I: 
rose  gracefully  and  waved  his  truncheon.     At  the  signal,  a  su< 
den  blare  from  the  trumpets,  at  the  entrance,  quickened  the  pu 
sation  in  every  bosom.     The  blast  was   answered  from  a  doze 
quarters  all  around,  the  response  from  the  tents  of  the  challenge] 
to  the  signal  which  required  them  to  appear.     But  a  few  m< 
ments  more   elapsed  when   the   trumpets  within   and  withoi 
pealed  in  unison ;  a  lively  and  prolonged  strain  of  wild  an 
cheerful  music ;  and  then  was  heard  the  heavy  trampings  of  aj 
proaching  horse. 

"  They  come  !  They  come !"  was  the  involuntary  cry  from 
thousand  lately  stifled  voices.     Then  the  heralds  and  pursuivant 


VASCO   DE   PORCALLOS.  213 

slowly  cantered  into  the  lists,  skirting  closely  the  barriers  ;  and 
when  expectation  was  at  the  highest,  the  challengers,  six  in  num- 
ber, made  their  appearance.  And,  truth  to  speak,  they  showed 
themselves  right  comely  chevaliers  to  the  eye,  and  seemed  well 
able  to  carry  themselves  bravely  and  keep  manfully  the  field. 
They  were  headed,  as  was  fitting,  by  the  Lieutenant  General  of 
the  army,  the  stout  and  wealthy  Hidalgo,  Don  Vasco  Porcallos 
de  Figueroa.  This  cavalier,  whatever  may  have  been  his  per- 
sonal merits,  was  perhaps  rather  more  indebted  to  his  wealth, 
for  the  distinction  he  enjoyed,  than  to  his  genius  as  a  soldier. 
We  do  not  know  that,  up  to  this  period,  he  had  ever  made  any 
remarkable  figure  in  arms.  He  certainly  had,  thus  far,  taken  no 
such  place  in  the  popular  imagination  as  was  assigned  to  sundry 
of  their  famous  men,  who  had  proved  even  unfortunate — such  as 
Alonzo  de  Ojeda,  and  many  others.  But  wealth,  with  frequent 
largesses,  a  right  generous  spirit,  and  a  gracious  carriage,  will 
work  wonders  towards  achieving  temporary  distinction.  The 
reader  may  not  have  forgotten  the  policy  of  the  Adelantado,  already 
indicated,  by  which  he  was  moved  to  depose  the  amorous  knight, 
Nuno  de  Tobar,  from  the  office  which  he  subsequently  conferred 
on  Vasco  de  Porcallos.  We  are  not  prepared  to  say  that  he  re- 
joiced in  the  pretext  which  enabled  him  to  do  so.  But,  it  was 
one  certainly  which  he  did  not  greatly  regret.  He  was  not  dis- 
pl  eased  at  having  the  means  wherewith  to  buy  the  favors  of  the 
rich  cavalier.  And  Vasco  Porcallos  did  not  defraud  expectation, 
lie  did  not  withhold  his  treasures  from  the  expedition  to  Florida. 
His  castellanos  were  freely  rendered  to  the  wants  of  his  superior, 
with  whose  ambitious  views  no  man  of  the  army  seemed  so 
deeply  to  sympathize.  Vasco  Porcallos  was  seized  with  a  new- 
born desire  for  fame,  without  foregoing  a  jot  of  his  old  passion 
for  acquisition.  He  was  anxious  to  be  known,  hereafter,  as  one 
of  the  conquerors  in  Florida ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  he  made 
sundry  shrewd  calculations  of  the  profit  which  would  ensue 
from  his  landed  estates  in  Cuba,  by  concentrating  upon  them 
the  labor  of  the  Apalachian  savages  whom  he  expected  to 
make  captive  in  his  progress.  The  two  passions,  glory  and 


214  VASCONSELOS. 

gain,  strove  equally  together  in  his  bosom  ;  and,  with  such  ran 
harmony,  that  neither  could  be  said  to  be,  at  any  time,  in  the  as 
cendant.  Vasco  Porcallos  was  of  a  brave  temper  ;  and,  thougl 
never  distinguished  in  war,  as  a  captain,  had  yet  enjoyed  consid 
erable  experience  in  the  new  world's  conquests.  Had  he  beer 
a  few  years  younger,  he  might  still  have  hoped  great  things  from 
his  gallant  spirit  and  generous  ambition.  But  our  cavalier  was 
on  the  wrong  side  of  fifty,  and  few  soldiers  have  ever  acquired 
reputation,  or  achieved  successes  in  foreign  invasion,  after  they 
have  passed  the  meridian  line  of  life.  It  may  be  reasonably 
doubted,  if  his  prudence  was  at  all  conspicuous  in  his  engaging 
in  a  long  and  hazardous  expedition.  That  he  would  endure  well 
enough  the  toils  of  a  single  campaign,  was  not  questioned  even 
among  those  who  were  jealous  of  his  wealth  and  great  appoint- 
ments ;  and  still  less  was  it  doubted  that  he  would  carry  himself 
well  in  such  passages  of  arms  as  it  should  fortune  him  to  en- 
counter. He  was  acknowledged  to  be  a  good  lance  and  a  prop- 
er horseman,  and  as  now  he  appeared  in  the  amphitheatre,  portly 
of  figure,  tall,  erect,  covered  with  shining  armor,  riding  a  splendid 
bay,  whose  form  and  color  were  equally  free  of  blemish — for 
the  white  spot,  of  crescent  shape,  conspicuous  in  the  centre  of 
the  horse's  forehead,  was  held  to  be  a  beauty  and  not  a  blemish 
— the  loud  shout  of  applause  which  welcomed  him,  seemed  to 
give  assurance  of  the  popular  confidence  in  his  prowess.  His 
steed  was  gayly  caparisoned  with  his  master's  favorite  color?, 
green  and  gold,  and  his  own  bearing  seemed  to  exhibit  a  full  con- 
sciousness of  the  distinction  he  enjoyed,  in  carrying  so  brave  a 
rider.  The  portly  knight  bestrode  him  with  an  air  and  spirit 
worthy  of  so  gallant  an  animal ;  and,  as  he  pricked  him  forward 
with  the  formidable  Spanish  rowel  and  made  him  caracole  to  the 
balcony,  where  sate  the  Adelantado  and  his  noble  companions  of 
the  fair  sex,  the  populace  again  shouted  their  unsuppressible 
admiration.  Vasco  Porcallos  wore  a  brilliant  armor,  which  be- 
trayed never  a  stain  of  the  soil.  A  rich  surcoat  of  -rreon  silk 
(afterwards  thrown  off)  hung  somewhat  loosely  above  his  armor, 
which  was  of  polished  steel,  fretted  in  figures  of  gold  and  silver, 


BALTHAZAR  DE  GALLEGOS.          215 

•vines  and  flowers  appearing  in  the  sort  of  jeweller  s  work  which 
is  known  as  variegated  gold.  His  helmet  was  of  like  material 
and  ornament,  surmounted  with  a  bunch  of  beautiful  and  costly 
plumes  of  the  heron.  The  small  shield  which  he  carried  lightly 
upon  his  left  arm,  was  of  steel  also,  inlaid  with  a  circular  bor- 
dering of  gold,  of  vines  and  flowers,  in  the  centre  of  which, 
splendidly  illuminated,  was  the  armorial  ensign  of  the  knight — 
a  bright,  keen  eye,  looking  out  from  a  sun  of  blazing  gold.  The 
arrogant  motto  spoke  sufficiently  for  the  insolent  ambition  of 
the  cavalier.  "  Es  mio  lo  que  veo!" — ("  That  is  mine  which  I 
see !")  But  this  confidence  vexed  no  self-esteem  in  all  the 
assembly.  It  was  but  the  embodiment  of  the  national  conceit, 
and  it  was  perhaps  warranted  by  the  fact.  They  had  made 
their  own  all  that  they  had  seen.  It  was  an  encouragement  to 
valor  and  enterprise,  that  the  nation  should  thus  believe,  that 
there  was  nothing,  in  reserve,  which  its  warriors  could  not,  in 
like  manner,  make  their  own.  The  faith  makes  the  victory. 
Yasco  Porcallos,  known  by  his  largesse  much  more  than  by  his 
valor,  was  readily  assumed  to  possess  a  spirit  and  capacity 
worthy  of  his  bounty ;  and  his  graceful  obeisance  before  the 
duis  upon  which  Hernan  de  Soto  sate,  was  congratulated  by  the 
repeated  vivas  of  the  multitude,  and  acknowledged  by  the  gracious 
smile  and  courtesy  of  the  Adelantado.  Backing  his  steed  with 
an  elegant  and  measured,  yet  free  motion,  Don  Vasco  gave  way 
to  his  brother  challengers  to  come  forward. 

He  was  followed  by  Balthazar  de  Gallegos,  a  stout  and  gal- 
lant adventurer ;  who,  without  being  quite  so  matured  by  time 
as  Vasco  Porcallos,  had,  perhaps,  seen  quite  as  much  service  in 
Indian  warfare.  His  carriage  was  good,  and  his  skill  and  grace 
in  managing  his  steed  were  quite  equal  to  those  of  his  predeces- 
sor ;  but  there  was  a  lamentable  disparity  in  their  equipments. 
The  horse  was  a  fine  one,  big-limbed,  yet  of  lively  motion ;  but 
his  furniture  was  rusty;  and  the  armor  of  the  rider  was  distin- 
guished equally  by  the  antiquity  of  its  appearance,  and  the 
numerous  dints  of  battle  which  it  showed.  Even  the  slight  dec- 
orations which  Balthazar  de  Gallegos  employed  in  honor  of  the 


216  VASCONSELOS. 

occasion, — consisting  of  gaudy  scarf  and  various  colored  shoulder 
knots  and  ribbons,  served  rather  to  expose  than  to  relieve  the 
defects  and  decayed  places  in  his  rusty  harness.  His  shield  was 
large  and  cumbrous,  but  carried  lightly  on  his  muscular  arm. 
It  was  of  a  faded  blue  ground,  on  which  was  painted  a  volcanic 
mountain  in  eruption,  the  jets  of  fire  ascending  without  falling — 
the  motto  indicative  of  a  thoroughly  Spanish  ambition — '•'•Mas 
bien  consumir  que  no  exaltarmef" — ("Rather  burn  than  not  rise!") 
A  few  cheers  followed  the  appearance  of  this  cavalier ;  but  they 
sounded  very  coldly  and  meanly,  succeeding  those  which  had 
honored  the  man  of  fortune ;  and  after  making  his  obeisance, 
Balthazar  de  Gallegos,  drew  his  steed  into  the  background,  as  if 
satisfied  that  his  mountain  would  burn  rather  unprofitably  at  the 
present  moment. 

Very  different  was  the  welcome  which  hailed  the  appearance 
of  the  third  challenger.  This  was  our  old  acquaintance,  the  amo- 
rous young  cavalier,  Nuno  de  Tobar.  Nuno  was  a  favorite  with 
all  classes,  poor  and  rich,  men  no  less  than  women.  His  known 
grace  and  bravery, — his  frank  carriage,  easy,  accessible,  playful  . 
manner, — the  generosity  of  his  heart, — the  unaffected  simplicity 
of  his  nature, — all  combined  to  secure  for  him  the  most  sweet 
voices  of  the  multitude.  These  became  clamorous  as  the  spec- 
tators beheld  the  elegance  and  excellence  with  which  he  man- 
aged the  iron-gray  charger  which  he  bestrode — the  dexterity  with 
which  he  led  him,  caracoling,  almost  waltzing,  around  the  lists, 
to  the  foot  of  the  gallery  where  the  Adelantado  presided.  The 
steed  himself  was  one  to  delight  the  eye  of  all  who  beheld  him, — 
his  symmetrical  outline,  his  fiery  grace,  and  the  perfect  obedi- 
ence which  he  displayed,  even  when  his  spirit  seemed  eager  to 
burst  from  the  bondage  of  his  own  frame.  The  armor  of  Nuno 
de  Tobar  was  bright  and  polished.  He  had  taken  some  lessons 
on  this  subject  from  the  Portuguese  brothers,  whom  he  aimed  to 
rival.  It  was  not  rich,  like  that  of  Vasco  de  Porcallos,  nor  in 
such  good  taste.  In  truth,  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  tastes 
of  Nuno  were  inclined  to  be  gaudy.  The  decorations  of  his 
armor,  due  probably  as  much  to  his  gay  young  wife,  as  to  his 


MATEO   DE   ACEYTUNO.  217 

own  tastes,  were  of  a  kind  to  suit  the  costume  of  a  damsel  rather 
than  a  cavalier.  But  liveliness  and  gallantry  in  youth  will  be 
permitted  to  excuse  the  offence  of  foppishness ;  and,  where  the 
tastes  of  a  knight  showed  themselves  doubtfully,  a  gentle  judg- 
ment allowed  his  other  personal  qualities  to  repair  the  defect. 
The  spectators  beheld  nothing  but  his  graces,  the  known  kindness 
of  his  heart,  the  strength  of  his  arm,  the  spirit  and  the  beauty  of 
nis  horsemanship;  and,  while  the  men  made  the  welkin  ring 
with  their  clamor  at  his  appearance,  the  damsels  responded  to 
their  welcomes,  by  a  pretty  effort  at  clapping  hands,  and  a 
swarming  buzz  of  approving  voices;  for  all  which,  our  young 
knight  exhibited  a  due  measure  of  the  most  grateful  smiles.  His 
shield,  we  should  mention,  bore  the  representation  of  a  ship 
drifting  at  sea,  with  the  motto,  "  El  mar  es  mi  puerto" — (The 
sea  is  my  port,)  conceived  very  much  in  the  spirit  of  all  the 
Spanish  enterprise  of  that  day.  Having  finished  his  obeisance,  and 
made  a  laudable  showing  of  his  person  and  horsemanship,  Nuno  de 
Tobar  reined  his  steed  backwards,  and  took  his  position  beside 
Balthazar  de  Gallegos ;  being  the  third  of  the  knights  on  the  list 
of  challengers. 

He  was  followed  by  three  cavaliers  of  good  repute :  Christo- 
pher de  Spinola,  Gonzalo  Sylvestre,  (a  youth  not  more  than 
twenty-one,  but  of  fine  figure,  excellent  skill  and  great  courage,) 
and  Mateo  de  Aceytuno,  a  brave  knight,  who  was  also  the 
largest  in  frame  of  all  the  cavaliers  in  the  army.  Whether  on 
foot  or  mounted,  his  gigantic  stature,  like  that  of  Saul,  made  it 
easy  for  him  to  tower  above  all  his  associates.  His  spirit  and 
prowess  were  not  unworthy  of  his  size.  Though  somewhat  slow 
of  movement,  apathetic,  and  not  easily  aroused,  he  yet  never 
failed  in  any  of  the  duties  which  were  assigned  him ;  and  his  be- 
havior was  such  always  as  to  secure  for  him  the  approbation  of 
his  superiors.  He  rode  a  famous  steed,  named  Aceytuno,  after 
himself,  that  had  a  reputation  of  its  own.  He  was  claimed  to 
be  of  Direct  Barbary  origin,  and  greatly  valued  by  his  owner,  who, 
however,  subsequently  presented  him  to  De  Soto,  in  consequence 
of  the  frequent  and  warmly  expressed  admiration  of  the  latter. 

10 


218  VASCONSELOS. 

Aceytuno  was  a  brilliant  animal ;  in  color  something  between  a 
sorrel  and  a  bay,  but  of  a  blood  so  rich  that  it  seemed  rather  to 
diffuse  itself  everywhere  beneath  the  skin,  through  which  it  shone 
like  a  purple  dye,  than  to  pursue  its  bounded  course  through  the 
ordinary  channel  of  vein  and  artery. 

Each  of  these  knights  had  his  motto  and  coat-of-arms.  The 
shield  of  Christopher  de  Spinola  carried  a  pair  of  huge  wings, 
under  which  was  written,  "A  solas  me  sostingo"  (Alone  I  sustain 
myself,)  not  a  bad  image  for  a  modest  bachelor,  who  hud  neither 
wife  nor  children,  and  was  not  required  to  feed  the  orphans  of 
any  of  his  neighbors.  That  of  the  gallant  youth,  Gonzalo  Syl- 
vestre,  would  be  regarded  in  our  day  as  something  impious,  even 
for  a  lover,  who  is  supposed  to  be  excusable,  by  reason  of  the 
amiable  insanity  under  which  he  labors,  for  any  infidelity  except 
that  to  his  mistress.  His  shield  represented  the  face  of  a  very 
beautiful  woman,  and  the  motto,  "Sin  vos,  y  sin  Dios  y  mi"  (With- 
out thee  I  am  without  God  and  without  myself,)  was  considered 
by  all  the  young  damsels  present  as  the  most  felicitous  of  all  sweet 
sayings,  to  which,  whatever  might  be  the  objections  of  the  Deity 
himself,  the  Blessed  Virgin  ought  by  no  manner  of  reason  to 
object  at  all.  The  figure  upon  the  shield  of  Don  Mateo  de 
Aceytuno  was  confined  to  his  profession  of  arms.  A  mailed 
hand  grasps  a  lance ;  the  device  was,  "  No  hay  otro  vinculo  que  el 
nucstro"  ("  There  is  no  bond  of  union  but  ours" — or,  as  under 
stood,  if  not  expressed — "  we  part  all  bonds  but  our  own.") 

Mateo  de  Aceytuno  completed  the  number  of  the  challengers. 
They  now  rode  together  around  the  lists,  prepared  to  undertake 
all  comers.  The  first  passages  were  to  be  with  the  lance ;  to  be 
followed  by  the  battle-axe  or  sword,  according  to  the  pleasure 
of  the  contending  parties ;  and  the  breaking  of  the  lance,  the 
blow  fairly  delivered  without  defence  offered,  of  the  battle-axe ; 
or  the  sword  wrested  from  the  gripe  of  one  or  other  of  the  com- 
batants, in  the  struggle,  was  understood  to  be  conclusive  of  the 
combat  in  each  case,  and  sufficient  for  the  victory.  * 

By  this  time  expectation  was  at  the  highest  point  of  excitation 
in  the  assembly.  The  galleries  were  all  filled  with  spectators ; 


THE   CHALLENGERS.  219 

the  corridor  girdled  densely  with  the  most  reckless  and  eager ; 
the  superior  seats  shone,  without  vacancy,  with  beauty  and  splen- 
dor. Even  along  the  surrounding  hills,  groups  of  the  simple 
natives  might  be  seen  looking  on  and  listening,  though  unable 
to  catch  more  than  a  glimpse  of  events,  and  depending  for  their 
interest  upon  the  expression  of  emotions  among  those  who  saw. 
Meanwhile,  the  eyes  of  the  knights-challengers  sought  naturally 
the  forms  of  the  fair  ladies  in  the  galleries.  Of  these,  indeed, 
the  heralds  kept  them  constantly  reminded  by  their  cries, — cries 
immernorially  preserved  by  the  heralds  of  chivalry — encourag- 
ing them  to  brave  deeds  for  the  reward  of  loving  smiles. 

"Bright  eyes !"  was  the  quaint  form  of  the  apostrophe ; — 
"  bright  eyes  for  the  blessing  of  brave  lances !  Brave  lances  for 
the  honor  of  bright  eyes !  Smile,  fair  ladies,  that  your  noble 
lovers  may  take  heart !  Do  brave  deeds,  noble  lovers,  that  the 
ladies  of  your  hearts  may  smile  !  a  trumpet  for  brave  lances  ! — 
and  thrice  a  trumpet  for  tiic  honor  of  bright  eyes !" 

Then  blared  the  lively  bugles  in  full  blast  together !  Then 
burst  in  mighty  gushes  the  full  torrents  of  the  wild  barbaric  mu- 
sic, which  the  Wisigoth  had  borrowed  from  the  Moor,  and  the 
Spaniard  from  both — drums,  and  flutes,  and  cymbals  : — while  the 
excited  pulses  of  the  spectators  were  relieved  by  murmurs  of 
delight;  by  sudden  cries  of  exultation — by  shouts  of  applause  and 
encouragement. 

The  effect  of  all  this  was  not  less  remarkable  upon  the  knights- 
challengers  than  upon  the  crowd.  The  enthusiastic  veteran, 
favorite  of  mammon,  Don  Vasco  de  Porcallos,  could  scarcely 
keep  his  seat,  so  eagerly  did  his  ears  drink  in  the  stimulating 
sounds  and  murmurs,  so  fondly  did  his  eyes  traverse  that  fair 
assembly,  to  whose  bright  glances  he  was  bade  to  look.  Nor 
was  the  effect  thus  stimulating  in  his  respect  alone.  Don  Nuno 
de  Tobar  did  not  fail  to  note  the  perpetual  waving  towards  him 
of  the  scarf  of  his  newly-made  and  dutifully-loving  wife ;  but  it 
must  be  confessed  that  his  eyes  requited  other  spectators  in  that 
fairy  circle,  with  quite  as  devout  a  regard  as  he  paid  to  the  beau- 
tiful, but  frail,  Leonora  de  Bobadilla.  The  young  knights,  Chris- 


220  VASCONSELOS. 

topher  de  Spinola  and  Gonzalo  de  Sylvestre,  were  not  less  heed- 
ful of  charms  to  which  they  might  more  properly  assert  their 
claims ;  and,  despite  his  rough  exterior,  Balthazar  de  Gallegos 
showed  himself  as  eager  of  the  notice  of  the  ladies  as  any  of  the 
rest.  Of  whom,  indeed,  does  not  beauty,  when  it  smiles,  make 
the  fool  ]  The  rough  soldier,  seasoned  to  ill  usage  and  strife, 
callous  to  blows,  and  sworn  to  plunder,  was  quite  as  solicitous 
of  the  approval  of  bright  eyes,  as  the  young  gallant  just  about  to 
undertake  his  devoir  to  secure  his  spurs  of  knighthood. 

But  a  rougher  parley  awaits  all  the  parties.  The  Adelantado 
gives  the  signal  for  the  assailants  to  appear.  Don  Balthazar  de 
Alvaro  waves  his  truncheon ;  the  heralds  shout,  the  trumpets 
sound,  and  the  trampings  of  horse  again  are  heard.  Soon,  the 
six  assailing  cavaliers  begin  to  pass  into  the  amphitheatre. 

We  shall  be  excused  from  such  details,  in  respect  to  these,  as 
we  have  given  of  the  challengers,  and  for  obvious  reasons.  They 
do  not  concern  the  actual  business  of  this  true  chronicle,  and  enough 
has  been  showrn  to  afford  a  general  idea  of  the  habits,  manners, 
and  characteristics  of  the  times.  We  shall,  accordingly,  confine 
ourselves,  hereafter,  to  such  persons  only  as  belong  to  our  dra- 
riMtia  personce. 

Of  the  six  assailants,  then,  we  are  required  to  report  that 
Don  Philip  de  Vasconselos  ranked  only  as  the  fifth.  His  own 
modesty  gave  him  this  position.  He  might  have  led  the  party, 
had  it  pleased  him  to  do  so.  But  he  preferred  simply  to  take 
his  place  as  one  of  several.  His  brother  Andres  was  not  of  either 
party  ;  but  this,  it  must  be  remembered,  did  not  affect  his  claims 
to  take  the  field  against  all,  or  any,  of  those  who  might  remain 
the  conquerors. 

Philip  was  mounted  upon  a  coal-black  steed  of  famous  nur- 
ture ;  large  of  frame,  strong  of  muscle,  fleet  of  foot,  hardy  to 
endure,  and  of  a  beautiful  symmetry.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  be- 
hold his  form,  simply  as  he  stood,  without  motion,  obedient  to 
the  rein.  His  eyes  flashed  fire  as  he  darted  into  the  ring,  and 
heard  the  mingled  cries  and  clamors  from  a  hundred  trumpets, 
and  a  thousand  voices.  Though  docile  as  a  lamb,  his  forefoot 


PHILIP   IN  THE   LISTS.  221 

pawed  the  earth  impatiently,  as  if  emulous  of  the  laurels  also, 
and  his  breast  heaved,  like  a  rocking  ship,  that  strains  upon  the 
cordage,  as  if  anxious  to  break  away  upon  the  billows.  But 
the  firm  hand  of  the  rider  was  the  anchor  to  his  will.  Very 
calmly  did  Philip  de  Vasconselos  approach  the  dais,  and  make 
his  obeisance  with  lifted  lance,  and  graceful  bend  of  his  mailed 
stature,  to  the  Adelantado.  There  was  no  curvetting,  no  aim 
to  show  either  his  riding  or  his  bearing.  De  Soto  received  him 
with  a  graceful,  but  not  a  cordial  salutation.  The  smile  upon  his 
lips  was  very  faint  and  cold ;  very  different,  indeed,  from  that 
of  the  noble  lady  his  wife,  who  curtsied  frankly,  and  smiled 
cheeringly,  while  her  eye  declared  her  honest  admiration  of  the 
character  and  bearing  of  the  knight  of -Portugal.  De  Soto  could 
not  forgive  the  defection  from  his  ranks  of  so  experienced  an 
adventurer ;  and  though  very  impolitic  to  discriminate  in  the 
treatment  of  the  knights,  he  was  one  of  those  men  whose  feelings 
but  too  frequently  escape  the  fetters  of  their  policy.  With  a 
further  obeisance,  Philip  closed  his  visor,  and  rode  back  to  his 
place  in  the  lists — a  place  which  brought  him  to  confront  the 
burly  form  of  the  gigantic  Mateo  de  Aceytuno. 

We  must  not  forget  to  mention  that  his  person  was  cased  in 
a  beautiful,  but  plain  suit  of  chain  armor,  of  the  purest  fashion. 
It  was  very  brightly  polished,  and  as  free  of  spot  or  defect  as  of 
ornament.  This  suit  he  did  not  wear  in  Indian  battle,  but  in 
place  of  it  one  of  cotton,  well  wadded,  which,  strange  to  say,  had 
been  found  better  defence  against  the  arrows  of  the  red  man,  than 
the  vaunted  armor  of  the  knights  of  Christendom.  His  helmet 
was  surmounted  by  a  single  plume,  long  and  waving,  and  black 
as  the  raven's.  His  shield  was  a  series  of  circular  steel  plates, 
the  centre  of  which  revealed  his  crest  and  device, — the  figure,  a 
ruined  tower,  from  which  a  falcon  was  about  to  fly,  hovering 
above  it, — the  device,  in  Latin :  "  Volucri  non  opus  est  nido" — 
(Having  the  wing,  I  no  longer  need  the  nest,) — a  sufficient  allu- 
sion to  his  homeless  fortunes,  and  to  the  independent  courage 
which  enabled  him  to  soar  above  them.  He  wore  no  lady's 
favor,  no  gaud,  no  ribbon  ;  but  with  uniform  costume,  there  was 


222  VASCONSELOS. 

a  sort  <>f  sombre  nobleness  in  his  aspect  that  compelled  respect- 
ful attention.  His  known  prowess,  honored  by  those  who  were 
jealous  of  his  nation,  increased  the  admiration  of  those  who  sur- 
veyed his  form  and  watched  his  movements.  Of  these  he  recked 
little,  and  perhaps  saw  nothing ;  but  there  were  eyes  in  that 
great  assembly  whom  it  thrilled  his  bosom  to  feel  were  behold- 
ing him  also.  In  the  brief  moment  of  communion  with  the  gal- 
lery, where  sate  the  grandees  of  the  island  and  their  families,  his 
glance  had  encountered  with  that  of  Olivia  de  Alvaro.  She  had 
striven  greatly  to  avoid  the  single  look  which  she  gave  him,  but 
a  terrible  fascination  forced  her  eyes  upon  him.  His  grew 
brighter  and  prouder  at  the  grateful  encounter,  and  he  did  not 
perceive  that  hers  sunk  upon  the  instant  of  meeting,  and  that  her 
cheek  grew  ashen  pale.  But  her  emotion  did  not  escape  the 
keen  glances  of  her  uncle ;  and  a  close  observer  might  have  noted 
the  sudden  contraction  of  his  brows,  which  followed  his  discovery. 
Sitting  where  he  did,  just  below  the  Adelantado,  and  immediate- 
ly above  the  lists,  he  witnessed  easily  the  sudden  quickening  of 
light  in  the  eyes  of  the  Portuguese  cavalier,  and  the  as  sudden 
paling  of  the  cheek  of  Olivia.  But  Philip  and  Olivia  were,  at 
that  moment,  wholly  unconscious  of  the  watch  maintained  upon 
them. 

Here,  let  us  pause  and  breathe.  Our  chapter  is  a  long  one, 
and  having  placed  our  champions  in  opposition,  let  us  reserve 
the  report  of  the  joyous  passage  for  another. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

'  Son  dunque,"  disse  il  Saracino,    '  sono 

Dunque  in  si  poco  credito  con  voi, 
Che  mi  slimiate  inutile,  e  non  buono 
Da  potervi  difender  da  costui?" — ARIOSTO. 

THE  temptation  to  describe  the  scene  that  followed  must  be 
struggled  with.  It  will  not  do  for  us  to  aim  at  successes,  at  this 
late  day,  in  a  field  which  has  employed  the  genius  of  Tasso,  of 
Ariosto,  of  Spenser,  and  Walter  Scott,  not  to  speak  of  hundreds 
more,  whose  practised  pens  have  painted  for  us  the  full  details 
of  many  a  well-urged  passages-of-arms  between  rival  knights  in 
the  presence  of  nobility  and  beauty.  The  reader  is  already  suf- 
ficiently imbued  with  such  scenes  to  require  no  elaborate  details ; 
and  we  Shall,  accordingly,  confine  ourselves  mostly  to  those  por- 
tions of  the  tournament  at  Havana  which  concern  immediately 
the  persons  of  our  own  drama,  making  the  general  description 
as  succinct  as  possible.  With  this  caution  to  our  audience, 
against  unreasonable  fears  or  improper  expectations,  we  proceed 
to  our  task. 

The  champions,  challengers,  and  defenders,  being  now  con- 
fronted, and  all  prepared,  the  truncheon  of  De  Soto  was  raised, 
giving  the  signal.  The  trumpets  sounded  the  charge,  and  the 
opposing  parties  rushed  to  the  encounter  like  so  many  vivid 
flashes  from  the  cloud.  The  concussion  threw  up  a  sudden  whirl- 
wind of  dust,  while  the  solid  earth  shook  beneath  the  thunder  of 
their  tread.  At  the  very  first  encounter  two  of  the  assailing 
party  and  one  of  the  challengers  went  down,  and  were  dragged 
off  the  field  by  their  squires.  This  result  left  Nuno  de  Tobar, 
whose  opponent  had  been  one  of  those  overthrown,  to  turn  his 
lance  in  whatsoever  direction  he  thought  proper;  but,  with  the 

(223) 


224:  VASCONSELOS. 

generosity  of  a  noble  nature,  he  preferred  to  keep  himself  in 
reserve  for  such  other  inequality  in  the  struggle  as  might  yield 
him  an  unembarrassed  combatant  wholly  to  himself.  New 
lances  having  been  supplied  to  those  who  had  fractured  them  fairly 
in  the  passage  and  without  disparagement  to  their  arms,  the  sig- 
nal was  given  for  a  fresh  encounter ;  the  vacancies,  meanwhile, 
being  supplied  in  the  ranks  of  both  parties.  In  this  second  pas- 
sage,  Don  Vasco  de  Porcallos  carried  himself  so  handsomely 
against  his  opponent,  who  was  a  huge  Fleming  of  nearly  his  own 
dimensions,  that  the  latter  was  incontinently  overthrown,  and 
removed  almost  insensible  from  the  field.  A  similar  fortune, 
though  not  with  such  serious  hurt,  befell  Christopher  de  Spinola, 
whose  boast  "  a  solas  me  sostingo"  was  not  justified  by  the  result 
of  the  encounter.  He  was  handsomely  lifted  out  of  his  saddle 
by  the  lance  of  Diego  Arias  Tinoco,  a  brave  captain,  rough  as  a 
porcupine,  who  was  honored  as  standard-bearer  of  the  army. 
The  latter,  being  now  disengaged,  was  singled  out  by  Nuno  de 
Tobar,  and  his  horse  failing,  and  swerving  in  the  shock,  he  was 
adjudged  to  have  been  worsted,  and  very  reluctantly  yielded  for 
the  moment  to  a  conqueror. 

The  successes  of  Nuno  were  welcomed  right  royally  by  the 
cheers  of  the  admiring  spectators;  whose  comments,  by  the 
way,  were  administered  unsparingly,  whether  for  praise  or  blame, 
at  evei*y  charge  in  the  business  of  the  field.  Meanwhile,  Philip 
de  Vasconselos  has  borne  himself  in  a  second  encounter  with  the 
gigantic  Mateo  de  Aceytuno.  In  the  first,  a  gentle  and  joyous  pas- 
sage, as  the  heralds  styled  it,  the  advantage  was  decreed  to  rest 
with  neither.  Their  lances  had  been  mutually  well  addressed,  and 
had  shivered  at  the  same  moment,  both  knights  preserving  their 
seats  handsomely,  though  not,  perhaps,  with  equal  grace ; — for 
Philip  had  few  equals  in  mere  carriage — and  recovered  their 
places  in  an  instant;  but  proper  judgments  remarked,  in  the 
strong  patois  of  the  mountains,  that  the  horse  of  Mateo  had  too 
little  bone  for  his  master's  beef.  In  this,  he  certainly  suffered 
some  disadvantage.  But  the  second  conflict  was  decisive ;  and 
the  knight  of  Aceytuno  went  down  before  his  more  adroit  antago- 


THE   TOURNAMENT.  225 

nist — his  huge  bulk  thundering  upon  the  earth  like  the  concussion 
of  some  mighty  tower.  Something  of  this  advantage  was  said 
to  be  due  to  a  loosening  of  the  girth,  by  which  the  saddle  of  the 
heavy  knight  was  secured  ;  but  others  more  liberal,  perhaps  just, 
ascribed  it  to  the  better  skill  of  Philip ;  at  all  events,  the  one 
opponent  disappearing  from  the  field,  Philip  de  Vasconselos  found 
himself  in  the  presence  of  another,  in  the  person  of  his  friend, 
Nuno  de  Tobar. 

Perhaps,  the  whole  tournament  exhibited  no  two  warriors  bet- 
ter matched  in  most  respects.  They  were  nearly  of  the  same 
size  and  age ;  of  strength  apparently  nearly  equal,  equally  expert 
in  the  use  of  weapons,  and  equally  accomplished  in  the  manage- 
ment of  the  horse.  These  were  the  comparisons  made  by  most 
persons ;  and  as  the  two  combatants,  now  almost  alone  engaged 
in  the  area,  confronted  each  other  with  fresh  lances,  the  people, 
and  after  them  the  heralds,  sent  up  fresh  cries  of  admiration  and 
encouragement. 

"  Ho !  brave  cavaliers,  for  the  honor  of  your  ladies !  Ho  ! 
bright  lances,  for  the  glory  of  the  conquest !"  And,  sometimes, 
the  cry,  "  Ho !  Santiago,  and  the  lance  of  Spain  !"  Indicated  the 
working  of  that  feeling  of  nationality,  which  did  not  forget  that 
the  opponent  of  Nuno  de  Tobar  was  from  another,  and,  at  that 
time,  a  rival  nation.  The  occasional  murmurs,  and  snatches  of 
dialogue  among  the  crowds,  declared  this  prejudice  more  strongly. 

"  I  like  not  that  these  Portuguese  should  come  hither  to  glean 
of  our  contests !  Shall  we  find  the  countries  and  make  the  con- 
quest of  the  natives,  that  these  should  gather  the  gold  1  Now, 
may  the  good  lance  of  Nuno  de  Tobar  send  him  from  the  sad- 
dle with  such  shock,  as  shall  make  him  think  no  more  of  the  pearls 
of  Florida !" 

Such  was  the  sort  of  murmur  occasionally  spoken  aloud. 

"  Out  upon  thee !"  was  the  reply  of  some  less  selfish  spirit. 
"  There  is  room  for  all,  and  gold  for  all,  and  there  needs  all  the 
brave  men  that  we  can  muster  for  these  wars  with  the  Apalachian 
savages.  They  are  no  such  feeble  wretches  as  these  of  Cuba,  or 
even  of  Peru,  where  Pizarro,  I  warrant  you,  and  our  Adelantado 
10* 


226  VASCONSELOS. 

here,  had  work  enough.  They  will  make  us  glad  of  all  the  good 
lances  that  will  crowd  thither  under  our  banner.  The  Portu- 
guese is  a  good  lance,  and  his  brother,  the  younger,  is  a  good 
lance ;  though  where  he  hides  himself  at  this  time,  and  where- 
fore, I  cannot  guess.  I  had  looked  to  see  him  here.  Had  he 
been  opposed  to  our  fat  Vasco  Porcallos,  instead  of  that  clumsy 
Fleming,  I  warrant  you  that  he  had  made  the  other  sweat !  But, 
hark !  they  prepare !  Go  to  it,  good  knights !  Go  to  it  with  a 
stomach  !  Show  that  ye  have  fed  on  lances  !  That  your  daily 
meat  hath  been  bolt  and  Spear-head,  and  your  drink  hath  been 
swordrblades,  and  Moorish  scimitars !  Ho !  brave  lances  !  Ho ! 
brave  steeds  !  To  it !  to  it !  brave  lances,  noble  steeds  !" 

This  was  one  of  a  hundred  voices,  eagerly  urging  the  cavaliers 
to  the  conflict  which  was  held  so  equal.  Equal  in  many  respects, 
there  were  yet  some,  in  which  the  knight  of  Portugal,  or  as  they 
called  him,  "  the  Knight  of  the  Homeless  Falcon," — in  allusion  to 
his  crest — had  much  the  advantage.  His  steed  had  been  better 
trained  for  such  encounters ;  he  himself  had  seen  more  various 
service ;  and  he  possessed  a  sedate  and  temperate  coolness  of 
mind,  to  which  the  somewhat  mercurial  nature  of  Nuno  de  To- 
bar  could  not  lay  claim.  Above  all,  he  knew  just  in  what 
particulars  he  himself  was  strong  and  his  opponent  weak,  and 
he  prepared  rather  to  exercise  his  patience  and  watchfulness,  than 
his  strength  and  skill.  Nuno  de  Tobar,  ambitious  of  excelling — 
fighting  in  the  presence  of  the  army,  and  of  that  beauty  which 
was  usually  the  source  of  his  inspiration — resolved  that  Philip  de 
Vasconselos  should  have  need  of  both.  Besides,  he  was  to  fight 
for  the  honor  of  Spanish  lances.  Though,  personally,  a  devoted 
friend  of  his  present  opponent,  he  had  heard  the  popular  cries 
which  insisted  upon  their  Castilian  representative,  in  opposition  to 
the  foreiyn  knight ;  and  he  was  determined  that  Spain's  honor 
should  suffer  nothing  at  his  hands. 

But  Philip  de  Vasconselos  had  also  heard  these  cries.  He 
had  long  since  been  bitterly  made  to  feel  the  jealousy  and  preju- 
dices which  existed  amongst  the  Castilians  towards  himself  and 
his  Portuguese  associates,  and  the  pride  of  self  and  nation,  which 


THE   ADVERSARIES.  227 

rendered  resolute  his  courage,  was  mingled  with  something  of 
bitterness,  which  made  him  half  forgetful  that  Nuno  de  Tobar 
was  his  friend.  Thus  it  was  that,  as  if  in  recognition  of  the  pe- 
culiar wishes  of  the  multitude,  each  knight  was  prepared  to  en- 
gage in  the  struggle  with  a  sentiment  approaching  that  of  a  real 
hostility.  We  have  said  nothing  of  the  influence  which  the  pre- 
sence of  Olivia  de  Alvaro  had  upon  this  feeling  of  Philip.  It  is 
enough  to  say  that  it  did  not,  by  any  means,  lessen  his  fixed  re- 
solution to  employ  all  the  prowess  of  which  he  was  master  in 
the  approaching  controversy. 

The  interval  necessary  in  providing  the  champions  with  fresh 
lances,  tightening  the  girths  of  their  saddles,  and  otherwise  making 
them  ready  for  the  combat,  was  consumed  in  much  less  time  than 
we  have  taken  in  describing  it.  The  knights  were  both  in  their 
places,  and  the  trumpets  sounded  the  charge.  The  passage  was 
a  very  beautiful  one,  which  greatly  delighted  the  heralds.  Both 
lances  were  shivered  equally,  the  strokes  being  made  at  the  same 
moment,  and  each  delivering  it  fairly  upon  the  shield  of  his 
enemy.  Newly  supplied  with  weapons,  the  encounter  was  re- 
newed, and  with  the  same  results.  By  this  time,  however,  Nuno 
de  Tobar  was  growing  impatient.  He  felt,  rather  than  beheld, 
the  coolness  of  his  opponent ;  in  which  he  knew  lay  the  chief  ad- 
vantage of  the  latter  ;  and  with  this  feeling,  it  seemed  quite  in 
vain  that  he  strove  to  preserve  his  own.  Philip  de  Vasconselos 
discerned  the  restlessness  of  his  adversary,  in  a  little  circum- 
stance, which  drew  down  upon  the  Spanish  champion  the  thoughtless 
applauses  of  the  multitude.  In  receiving  a  fresh  lance  from  the 
herald,  and  while  wheeling  about  to  recover  his  position  in  the 
lists,  De  Tobar  hurled  the  lance  no  less  than  three  times  into 
the  air,  catching  it  dexterously  as  it  fell,  and  each  time  by  the 
proper  grasp.  Such  agility,  which  seemed  conclusive  to  the 
crowd  of  equal  confidence  and  skill,  appeared  in  the  eyes  of 
Philip  de  Vasconselos  a  proof  of  a  nervous  excitation,  rather  than 
strength  of  will,  or  coolness ;  and  he  prepared  himself,  accord- 
ingly, to  change  somewhat  his  plan  of  combat.  Hitherto,  when 
his  steed  had  rushed  to  the  encounter,  his  lance,  like  that  of  De 


228  VASCONSELOS. 

Tobar,  had  been  addressed  to  the  shield  of  his  opponent.  This 
was  the  common  mark  in  the  tournament  of  that  day ;  the  want 
of  exercise  making  the  atteint  more  difficult  when  addressed  to 
the  gorget,  or  the  helm  ;  but  the  cavalier  of  Portugal  had  prac- 
tised the  one  method  as  well  as  the  other,  and  not  designing  a 
surprise  upon  his  opponent,  he  shook  out  his  lance,  ere  the  trum- 
pets sounded,  and  levelled  it  in  the  direction  of  De  Tobar's  visor. 
The  hint  seemed  to  be  taken,  for  the  lance  of  the  latter  was  at 
once  slightly  elevated,  receiving  a  new  direction  in  his  glance. 
Thus  prepared,  the  signal  was  given,  and  they  hurried  to  the 
shock.  At  the  moment  of  crossing  spears,  his  point  still  ad- 
dressed to  the  visor  of  his  opponent,  Vasconselos  threw  suddenly 
the  lower  edge  of  his  shield  forwards,  inclining  it  over  his  own 
head,  and  watching  the  object  of  his  aim  from  beneath  the  very 
run  of  the  buckler.  No  time  was  left  the  other  for  providing 
against  this  peculiar  interposition  of  the  shield,  which  required 
him  to  have  aimed  so  truly  as  to  thrust  his  lance  directly  against 
the  visor  of  his  antagonist,  the  crest  of  which  was  totally  covered, 
leaving  the  mark  aimed  at  reduced  to  the  smallest  possible  size. 
The  skill  of  Tobar  was  not  equal  to  such  a  manoeuvre.  The 
point  of  his  lance  accordingly  struck  the  edge  of  the  raised  shield, 
and  glanced  upward,  and  onward,  over  the  smooth  surface,  ex- 
pending itself  in  air ;  while  the  point  of  Vasconselos,  admirably 
delivered,  was  riveted  in  the  bars  of  his  antagonist's  visor,  so 
firmly,  and  so  fairly,  that  there  was  no  escape,  no  evasion  of  it 
possible  ;  and  the  gallant  Nuno  was  borne  from  his  saddle,  with- 
out seeming  resistance.  Indeed,  the  spear  so  fixed,  the  onward 
rush  of  both  steeds  gave  it  an  impulse  which  no  skill,  no  strength, 
at  such  a  moment,  could  possibly  withstand.  It  carried  him 
headlong  to  the  ground,  and  the  steed  went  free  from  under 
him. 

There  was  a  cry,  almost  a  howl,  from  the  multitude,  at  the 
fall  of  their  favorite,  and  the  national  champion. 

"  Demonios !"  sang  out  the  swell  mob  in  the  corridor,  who 
flung  up  their  arms  with  their  voices,  and  swore,  and  tore  their 
hair,  with  as  much  vivacity  as  could  be  shown  by  the  most  mer- 


THE   LAST  OF  THE   CHALLENGERS.  229 

curia  I  Frenchman.  A  few  voices  shouted  their  applause  of  the 
conqueror ;  not  able  to  resist  the  emotion,  more  strong  than 
nationality,  in  favor  of  a  deed  of  manhood.  But  these  soon  died 
away  ;  and  then  could  be  heard  that  angry  sort  of  discussion,  in 
all  parts  of  the  amphitheatre,  in  which,  though  all  persons  were 
agreed,  there  was  yet  no  possibility  of  settling  upon  the  reason 
which  should  justify  their  anger,  or  soothe  their  disappointment. 
Meanwhile,  Philip  de  Vasconselos  had  thrown  himself  out  of  the 
saddle,  and  was  the  first  to  hurry  to  assist  and  extricate  his  friend 
from  helm  and  gorget,  and  raise  him  from  the  ground.  The 
squires,  however,  were  soon  in  attendance.  The  fall  had  been  a 
really  severe  one,  and  the  Spanish  knight  was  somewhat  stunned 
by  it ;  but,  otherwise,  he  was  uninjured.  But  his  head  felt  the 
soreness,  not  his  heart.  His  gloved  hand,  as  soon  as  he  had 
sufficiently  recovered  to  recognize  his  opponent,  clutched  that  of 
Vasconselos,  in  token  of  that  friendly  sympathy  between  them, 
which  such  an  event  could  never  interrupt.  He  was  assisted  off 
from  the  field,  and  Philip  now  rode  back  to  his  place,  prepared 
for  the  next  encounter. 

The  caprices  of  the  day  had  left  him  without  other  antagonist, 
of  all  the  challengers,  than  the  portly  Hidalgo,  Don  Vasco  Por- 
callos  de  Figueroa.  In  him,  the  Spanish  multitude  were  dis- 
quieted to  think,  that  they  beheld  the  only  obstacle,  now,  in  the 
way  of  the  knight  of  Portugal ;  who,  if  successful  in  this  pas- 
sage, would  remain  the  master  of  the  field.  The  vain  and  wealthy 
cavalier,  thus  distinguished  by  fate,  as  was  Ulysses,  to  be  "de- 
voured the  last"  of  his  comrades,  had  hitherto  maintained  himself 
with  equal  spirit  and  success.  He  had  been  fortunate,  perhaps, 
in  not  having  been  confronted  with  the  most  formidable  of  the 
knights  by  whom  the  challengers  had  been  encountered.  He 
was,  perhaps,  not  wholly  unconscious  of  this  fact ;  and  it  was 
with  some  misgivings,  accordingly, — which  he  shared  equally 
with  his  Castilian  friends, — that  he  prepared  to  contend,  not  so 
much  for  new  conquests,  as  to  maintain  those  which  his  lance 
had  already  achieved.  He  had  seen  enough  of  the  prowess  of 
the  knight  of  the  Falcon,  by  whom  the  favorite  of  the  Spaniards 


230  VASCONSELOS. 

had  been  so  roughly  handled,  to  entertain  a  reasonable  appre- 
hension of  the  consequences  to  himself;  and,  if  the  truth  were 
known,  he  was  in  little  humor  for  this  last  grand  passage.  Could 
he  have  retired  from  the  contest  without  discredit,  and  without 
utter  forfeiture  of  the  honors  he  had  already  won,  it  is  perhaps 
doing  him  no  injustice  to  say  that  he  would  most  certainly  have 
declined  it.  He  had  not  gone  through  his  fatigues  without  suf- 
fering. His  portly  frame,  for  a  long  time  unused  to  harness, 
was  now  shrinking  beneath  its  incumbrance.  He  was  reeking 
with  perspiration,  which  a  brimming  goblet  of  cool  wine  of  Xeres, 
which  he  had  just  swallowed,  had  not  tended  to  diminish.  But, 
with  all  his  annoyances  and  doubts,  he  put  on  a  good  countenance, 
and,  closing  up  his  visor,  prepared  for  the  encounter,  with  his 
best  hope  and  spirit. 

"  The  fat  knight  adds  but  another  to  the  trophies  of  our  Por- 
tuguese cavalier.  Philip  de  Vasconselos  will  remain  master  of 
the  field  ;  certainly,  he  hath  most  admirable  skill  of  horse  and 
weapon.  He  hath  but  a  single  joust  before  him,  and  then  he 
may  elect  the  Queen  of  Love  and  Beauty  !" 

This  was  said  by  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro.  It  was  addressed 
to  the  lady  of  the  Adelantado.  But  it  was  meant  for  other 
ears.  At  a  little  distance,  on  the  left  of  Hernan  de  Soto,  stood 
Andres  de  Vasconselos.  He  had  been  a  witness  of  all  that  had 
taken  place  ;  and  had  heard  the  significant  words  of  Olivia's  un- 
cle. For  a  moment  he  gazed  steadily  upon  the  field ;  then,  giving 
a  single  glance  at  Olivia,  whose  color  had  been  greatly  heightened 
by  her  emotions  during  the  scene,  he  was  about  to  leave  the 
scaffolding,  when  the  words  of  the  Adelantado  reached  his  ears, 
— not  spoken  aloud;  but  rather  as  if  giving  expression  to  a  feel- 
ing which  he  could  no  longer  suppress,  and  which  was  stronger 
than  his  policy : 

"  Now,  would  I  give  my  best  steed  could  Vasco  Porcallos 
maintain  himself  to  the  overthrow  of  this  Portuguese  cavalier. 
It  were  shame  to  the  lances  of  Spain  should  he  bear  away  the 
palm  ;  and  I  would  gladly  see  that  arrogance  rebuked,  which  but 
too  much  distinguishes  this  stranger.  Were  it  not  for  the  posi- 


TORMENTS   OF  JEALOUSY  231 

tion  which  I  hold,  I  should  myself  take  up  lance,  and  mount 
steed  in  this  combat !" 

"  To  be  thyself  overcome,"  was  the  secret  thought  of  Andres 
de  Vasconselos,  which  he  found  it  difficult  to  suppress.  Hernan 
de  Soto  had  not  noticed  the  near  neigborhood  of  the  younger  of 
the  two  Portuguese  knights,  as  he  made  his  indiscreet  remark  ; 
but  Balthazar  de  Alvaro  was  well  aware  of  his  presence.  He 
saw,  too,  the  meaning  of  that  fierce  glance  which  flashed  from 
the  eyes  of  Andres,  when  the  speech  of  the  Adelantado  was 
made.  It  was  his  policy  to  divert  the  anger  of  Andres  de  Vas- 
conselos from  every  but  one  object,  and  he  quickly  remarked, 
still  seeming  not  to  perceive  the  youth  : 

"  It  were  no  easy  matter  to  wrest  the  victory  from  this  knight 
of  Portugal,  at  this  moment.  There  are,  if  I  mistake  not,  bright 
eyes  in  this  assembly,  the  favoring  smiles  of  which  will  arm 
him  with  invincible  power.  He  who  fights  in  the  sight  of  beauty 
is  always  brave ;  but  he  who  fights  in  the  eyes  of  a  beloved  one, 
who,  at  the  same  time  looks  love  in  return,  is  unconquerable." 

This  was  carelessly  said,  but  the  glance  of  the  uncle  led  the 
eyes  of  Andres  de  Vasconselos  to  the  spot  where  sate  the  niece. 
She  saw  nothing  but  the  one  presence  in  the  field ;  and  hi  her 
face,  more  than  ever  beautiful,  glowed  the  fires  of  an  affection 
which  was  not  to  be  misunderstood.  Her  cheek  was  no  longer 
sad  and  pale,  as  Andres  had  usually  beheld  it.  It  was  now 
flashed  with  an  emotion,  betraying  a  joy  and  a  triumph  which 
was  forgetful  wholly  of  itself.  Andres  followed  the  direction  of 
her  eye,  and  he  saw  his  brother,  proud  and  eager,  with  visor  up- 
lifted, and  gazing,  with  the  most  intent  delight,  upon  the  beautiful 
creature  whom  he  had  loved  in  vain.  Bitter  was  the  pang  at 
his  heart,  and,  with  emotions  of  hate  and  envy,  which  could  not  be 
controlled,  he  dashed  away  from  the  stage,  and  disappeared 
among  the  pavilions  in  the  rear.  Balthazar  de  Alvaro  beheld 
his  departure,  almost  the  only  one  of  the  assembly  who  did  so, 
with  a  keen  feeling  of  gratification. 

"  He  has  it !"  muttered  the  wily  politician  to  himself,  as  he 
once  mere  addressed  his  attention  to  the  business  of  the  tourney  : 


232  VASCONSELOS. 

"  He  has  it — and  the  time  is  not  distant,  when  he  will  make 
another  feel  the  fury  of  that  dark  passion  which  is  working  in 
his  heart." 

Don  Balthazar  judged  rightly  of  the  feelings  of  Andres,  when 
he  allowed  his  own  nature  to  provide  the  standards  of  judgment. 
Why  had  Andres  gone  to  his  pavilion  ?  we  shall  see  hereafter. 
Enough,  that  he  summons  his  squire  to  his  aid ;  that  he  cases 
himself  in  armor ;  that  he  bids  them  get  ready  his  destrier,  that 
he  buckles  sword  to  his  side,  and  shakes  aloft  the  heavy  lance, 
and  tries  its  burden  with  his  hands.  Let  us  leave  him,  and  re> 
turn  to  the  amphitheatre. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

"  Clashing  of  swords.     Brother  opposed  to  brother  I 
Here  is  no  fencing  at  half-sword.    Hold  I  hold  I" 

BEAUMONT  AND  FLKTCBB. 

THIS  episode,  between  parties  not  mingling  with  the  action, 
offered  no  obstruction  to  the  progress  of  the  tourney.  The  pre- 
parations still  went  on  for  the  passage-at-arms  between  our  knight 
of  the  Falcon,  and  the  redoubtable  millionaire,  Don  Vasco  de 
Porcallos.  These  were  soon  completed,  and  the  knights  took 
their  places.  "  Laissez  aller !"  The  signal  being  given,  the  two 
champions  dashed  forward  to  the  encounter  with  a  desperate 
speed  that  threatened  to  annihilate  both  combatants.  There  was 
no  reluctance  in  the  carriage  and  conduct  of  the  rich  cavalier, 
however  great  might  have  been  his  secret  misgivings.  While 
he,  no  doubt,  questioned  his  own  resources  of  skill  and  strength 
against  an  opponent  who  had  always  proved  himself  most  formi- 
dable, yet  the  doubts  of  Don  Vasco  never  once  occasioned  any 
fears  in  his  bosom.  He  was  brave  enough  when  the  trial  was 
to  be  made.  He  was  not  destined  to  be  successful,  but  he  was 
spared  some  of  the  mortifications  of  defeat.  A  misfortune  hap- 
pened to  him,  while  in  mid  career,  which  probably  saved  our 
corpulent  cavalier  from  a  much  worse  evil.  His  steed,  which 
was  as  high-spirited  as  he  was  powerful,  trod  upon  the  barbed 
head  of  a  broken  lance  which  had  been  partly  buried  out  of  sight 
beneath  the  sands  of  the  arena.  The  sharp  point  of  the  steel 
touched  the  quick  of  the  animal's  foot,  and,  with  a  snort  of  ter- 
ror, he  wheeled  about  at  the  very  moment  when  the  lances  should 
have  crossed.  He  became  suddenly  unmanageable.  Quick  as 
lightning,  as  he  beheld  the  straits  of  his  opponent,  the  knight  of 


234  VASCONSELOS. 

Portugal  elevated  his  own  lance,  and,  having  full  control  of  his 
steed,  drew  him  suddenly  up,  arresting  him  in  his  full  speed  so 
admirably,  that  he  stood  quivering  upon  the  spot ;  the  unexpended 
impulse  which  he  had  received  now  shaking  him  as  with  an  ague. 
In  another  instant,  Philip  de  Vasconselos  was  on  his  feet,  and 
had  grasped  the  bridle  of  the  unmanageable  steed  of  his  rival, 
which,  by  this  time,  was  in  a  state  of  fury,  occasioned  by  the 
agony  of  his  hurt,  which  threatened  momently  to  unseat  his 
rider.  The  timely  service  enabled  Don  Vasco  to  alight,  and 
gratefully  acknowledging  the  assistance  rendered,  he  at  the  same 
time  acknowledged  himself  vanquished.  The  courtesy  of  his 
opponent,  indeed,  had  alone  spared  him  this  misfortune.  Don 
Philip  gracefully  rejected  this  acknowledgment,  and,  ascribing 
the  event  solely  to  the  sufferings  of  his  rival's  horse,  proposed 
that  Don  Vasco  should  find  another.  But,  by  this  time,  the 
chivalrous  feelings  of  the  latter  had  somewhat  subsided.  He  felt 
much  less  enthusiastic  than  before,  and  was  rather  pleased  now 
at  a  means  of  evasion,  which,  while  it  lost  him  the  final  honor  of 
the  day,  at  least  left  him  in  possession  of  the  credit  which  he  had 
acquired  in  the  previous  passages.  The  knight  of  the  Falcon 
remounted  his  own  steed,  and  resumed  his  place  within  the  lists. 
He  stood  alone,  and  in  expectation.  No  champion  stood  before 
him,  challenging  the  triumph  which  he  had  won, — the  crowning 
triumph  of  the  field.  There  was  a  sudden  and  deep  silence 
throughout  the  assembly.  The  feeling  was  everywhere  adverse 
to  his  claims  and  expectations ;  and  it  was  with  something  of 
contempt,  not  unmixed  with  bitterness,  that  our  knight  of  Por- 
tugal was  reminded  of  the  national  prejudice,  which  felt  reluc- 
tant to  do  justice  to  the  achievements  of  the  stranger.  There 
was  no  other  reason  for  the  silence  and  forbearance  of  Don 
Hernan  de  Soto,  who,  in  the  case  of  a  Castilian  champion,  or 
in  that  of  one  to  whom  he  felt  no  personal  prejudice,  would,  no 
doubt,  have  promptly  risen  in  his  place,  and  summoned  the  suc- 
cessful knight  forward,  to  choose  the  Queen  of  Love  and  Beauty, 
and  to  receive  the  chaplet  of  honor  at  her  hands.  There  was  no 
reason  why  the  award  should  not  be  promptly  made.  There 


A  NEW  CHAMPION.  235 

was  no  challenge  pending.  No  opponent  had  announced  himself 
for  the  combat.  All  who  had  presented  themselves  had  been 
disposed  of.  Yet  the  knight  of  the  Falcon  was  allowed  to  stand 
in  waiting,  unemployed,  alone,  for  a  space  of  several  minutes, 
not  a  word  being  spoken  to  him,  and  a  dead  silence  hanging  over 
the  multitude,  significantly  declaring  the  general  reluctance  to 
make  the  necessary  award.  In  the  silence  of  the  crowd,  De  Soto 
felt  his  justification.  But  the  gallant  Nuno  de  Tobar,  who  had, 
by  this  time,  joined  the  ladies  about  the  Adelantado,  warmly 
interposed  to  demand  that  justice  should  be  done  to  the  conquer- 
ing champion.  It  was  with  a  cold  severity  of  look  that  De  Soto 
prepared  to  comply  with  a  requisition  which  he  could  not  longer 
escape  with  decency,  when  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro  interposed. 

"But  a  moment  more,  your  excellency." 

"  Wherefore  1"  demanded  Tobar.  "  Will  you  keep  the  knight 
of  Portugal  in  waiting  all  day,  without  a  cause  1" 

"Let  him  wait !"  said  De  Soto,  sharply,  though  in  subdued 
tones.  "  The  warder  hath  a  reason  for  it." 

Don  Balthazar  whispered  to  Tobar  : 

"There  is  cause.  The  tourney  is  not  yet  ended.  There  is 
another  challenger.  He  will  soon  appear." 

"Ha!  who?" 

How  did  Don  Balthazar  know  that  there  was  another  chal- 
lenger 1  The  simple  Nuno  de  Tobar  himself  never  dreamed  of 
it ;  still  less  did  he  conjecture  in  what  guise  the  new  claimant 
for  the  laurels  should  appear.  At  that  moment,  silencing  all 
further  conversation  and  speculation,  a  sudden  sharp  flourish  from 
a  trumpet  without  awakened  Philip  de  Vasconselos  to  the  con- 
viction that  his  crown  was  not  secure.  By  this  time,  his  feelings 
had  become  sufficiently  embittered  for  genuine  anger,  and  a  real 
conflict.  He  turned  his  glance  quickly,  as  he  heard  the  tread  of 
the  approaching  cavalier,  and  beheld  emerging  into  the  amphi- 
theatre the  form  of  Andres  his  brother.  The  spectacle  was  one 
of  extreme  sorrow  and  mortification  to  the  elder  brother.  The 
moment  he  beheld  him,  Philip  muttered  to  himself,  closing  his 
visor : 


236  VASCONSELOS. 

"  Thou  too,  my  brother  !     Thou  hast  then  joined  with  mine 
enemies — ay,  and  thy  enemies  too — against  me  !" 

The  visor  of  Andres  was  already  closed,  and  Philip  could  not 
behold  his  face ;  but  he  could  readily  conjecture  the  crimson 
flush  which  covered  it, — the  usual  sign  of  his  intemperate  pas 
sion.  He  had  been  somewhat  surprised,  that  Andres  had  taken 
no  part  in  the  tournament  before  ;  but  the  feeling  was  not  one 
of  regret,  since,  as  we  have  seen,  he  had  already  entertained  some 
misgivings  that  his  brother  might  take  the  field  against  himself. 
We  have  not  forgotten  the  fierce  dialogue  which  had  taken  place 
between  them  on  this  subject.  Of  course,  Philip  de  Vasconselos 
entertained  no  personal  apprehensions  from  the  encounter.  His 
pride  was  in  no  way  alarmed,  lest  he  should  meet  with  over- 
throw, in  the  passage-at-arms  with  his  brother.  Indeed,  to  speak 
plainly,  Philip  knew  too  well  his  own  superiority  of  training, 
art,  and  muscle  ;  though  the  vanity  of  Andres  was  such  that  he 
had  persuaded  himself  to  a  very  different  estimate  of  their  mu- 
tual powers.  He  was  yet  to  be  taught  a  better  knowledge  of 
their  disparity.  The  reluctance  of  Philip  to  engage  in  such  a 
contest,  even  though  the  tournament  implied  neither  strife  nor 
malice,  was  based  upon  his  just  knowledge  of  human  nature ; 
upon  his  thorough  experience  in  respect  to  the  mood  and  char- 
acter of  Andres — his  passionate  blood  ;  his  disappointments  of 
heart ;  his  jealousy  of  the  superior  influence  and  reputation  of 
his  brother.  We  can  readily  divine  the  several  reasons  which 
governed  Philip  in  his  anxiety  to  escape  a  conflict,  in  regard  to 
which  he  yet  entertained  no  fears.  Now  that  they  stood  con- 
fronted, and  the  contest  was  inevitable,  he  endeavored  to  calm 
his  own  blood,  and  control  his  temper,  somewhat  excited  by  the 
circumstances  which  had  marked  his  treatment  by  the  Adelan- 
tado  and  the  assembly.  But  this  was  not  so  difficult.  The  re- 
ception of  Andres,  by  the  audience,  was  of  a  sort  to  kindle  in 
the  elder  brother  a  sentiment  of  passionate  indignation,  as  it 
declared  how  grateful  to  the  common  feeling  would  be  his  over- 
throw. The  multitude  hailed  the  entry  of  the  new  champion 
with  the  wildest  plaudits,  not  simply  as  he  promised  to  prolong 


OLIVIA'S  EMOTIONS.  237 

their  sports,  but  as  he  afforded  still  another  chance  for  the  defeat 
of  the  person  whose  triumph  had  chafed  the  national  pride. 
It  was  true  that,  even  if  Andres  should  succeed  against  Philip, 
the  honor  would  be  lost  to  Castile ;  but  to  this  finality,  their 
vision  did  not  extend.  All  that  they  now  required  was  the 
defeat  of  the  one  cavalier,  to  whom  their  own  favorites  had  been 
compelled  to  succumb. 

There  was  still  another  reason  for  the  excitement  of  the  mul- 
titude, on  the  unexpected  appearance  of  Andres  de  Vasconselos. 
It  is  a  curious  fact,  that  the  instincts  of  the  vulgar  rarely  err  in 
respect  to  the  passions  which  goad  and  afflict  the  natures  of  dis- 
tinguished men.  The  common  people  seem  readily  to  conjecture 
in  what  points  superiority  is  weak.  They  all  knew,  by  sure  in- 
stinct, that  the  brothers  were  rivals.  They  had  seen  and  heard 
enough,  touching  their  mutual  attachment  to  the  fair  beauty, 
Olivia  de  Alvaro,  to  imagine  that  the  approaching  conflict  was 
to  be  marked  by  other  feelings  than  those  of  chivalrous  ambi- 
tion, and  the  pride  that  looks  only  to  the  momentary  triumph. 
They  guessed  all  the  bitter  vexation  that  stimulated  the  one 
champion,  and  they  inferred  like  feelings  in  the  bosom  of  the 
other.  And  the  two  were  to  fight  in  the  presence  of  the  woman 
whom  they  both  loved.  A  thousand  eyes  turned  involuntarily 
to  where  Olivia  sate,  pale  and  breathless  with  anxiety  and  appre- 
hension. She,  too,  partook  of  the  convictions  of  the  multitude. 
They  were  brothers ;  they  were  rivals ;  and  she  had  reason  to 
fear  that  they  were  enemies.  She  had  heard  of  the  separation 
of  their  tents  ;  and  that  there  had  already  been  sharp  words  be- 
tween them.  And  now  they  stood,  face  to  face,  fronting  each 
other  with  sharp  weapons.  What  had  she  not  to  fear  1  The 
very  manner  in  which  Andres  de  Vasconselos  appeared  within 
the  field  ;  the  moment  chosen,  when  his  elder  brother  was  in 
full  possession  of  the  victory  ;  when  but  a  moment  was  needed 
to  afford  him  the  laurel  crown  for  which  he  had  striven  !  This 
was  a  circumstance  full  of  significance.  That  Andres  had  not 
sought  the  conflict  with  other  champions,  or  previously,  at  any 
period,  was  a  sufficient  proof  that  its  honors  were  not  the  objects 


238  VASCONSELOS. 

of  his  desire.  Why  should  he  take  the  field  now,  unless  with 
the  aim  to  pluck  them  from  the  brow  of  his  brother  ]  It  was  a 
bad  passion — hate,  revenge,  anything  but  an  honorable  ambition 
— which  prompted  his  appearance  now,  at  the  last  moment. 

Olivia  thought  all  these  things.  Such  were  the  thoughts  of 
Philip  also.  But  he  strove  to  restrain  and  silence  them ;  and,  in 
the  brief  interval  allowed  him,  his  inward  struggle  was  to  subdue 
himself, — to  keep  his  own  bad  passions  in  subjection,  and  to  offer 
no  such  provocation  to  those  of  his  brother,  as  would  place  him 
entirely  beyond  control  of  human  reason.  He  resolved  to  be 
forbearing  in  all  respects.  But  this  did  not  imply  that  he  would 
forego  any  of  his  resources  of  skill  or  strength  in  the  conflict. 
He  was  not,  by  any  means,  to  yield  his  claims  to  the  honors  of 
the  field,  in  favor  of  any  opponent.  On  this  point  he  was  reso- 
lute ;  and,  thus  resolved,  it  became  him,  if  he  would  effect  his 
triumph,  and  avoid  giving  unnecessary  provocation,  or  inflicting 
mortification  upon  his  brother,  that  he  should  maintain  the  cool- 
est temper,  and  suffer  nothing  to  disturb  his  passions.  It  re- 
quired some  effort  to  do  this,  for  he  had  felt  bitterly  his  isolation 
in  the  last  few  moments, — a  feeling  sadly  increased,  when,  as  he 
phrased  it,  his  own  brother  had  joined  his  enemies  against  him. 

We  must  not  allow  it  to  be  supposed  that  the  Adelantado 
beheld  the  opening  of  the  new  issue  between  these  parties,  with- 
out being  somewhat  sensible  to  the  strangeness-of  its  aspects. 
His  instincts,  too,  were  at  work ;  and  remembering  to  have 
heard  of  the  quarrel  between  the  brothers,  he  began  to  think 
there  was  something  unnatural  in  the  approaching  combat.  His 
conscience  reproached  him  for  the  ungenerous  delay  which  had 
kept  Philip  de  Vasconselos  from  the  crown  of  victory,  and  af- 
forded the  opportunity  for  the  event,  of  the  results  and  character 
of  which  he  had  grown  apprehensive  ;  and  he  looked  dubiously 
at  the  warder  of  the  field,  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro,  and  for 
the  first  time  felt  suspicious  of  those  motives,  on  his  part,  which 
had  moved  him  to  urge  the  delay  in  closing  the  lists.  But  thera 
was  now  no  moment  for  arrest  and  interposition,  unless  by  the 
exercise  of  a  seemingly  arbitrary  authority,  which  would  show 


THE   ENCOUNTER.  239 

nngrac'iously  in  all  eyes.     Accordingly,  the  affair  was  suffered  to 
go  on.     Both  champions  were  already  prepared  for  it. 

Andres  de  Vasconselos,  as  we  have  already  described  him, 
was  a  handsome  and  vigorous  youth,  well  made,  of  considerable 
muscle  and  agility,  well  skilled  in  arms,  an  admirable  rider,  and 
utterly  fearless  of  soul.  He  was  mounted  on  a  fine  blooded 
mare,  of  great  hardihood  and  life.  His  armor,  though  sombre 
also,  was  more  gay  than  that  of  his  brother,  and  he  wore  a  rich 
chain  of  gold,  with  a  medallion  pendant,  around  his  gorget.  A 
gay  crimson  scarf  crossed  his  bosom,  and  contrasted  effectively 
with  his  sable  armor.  His  shield  was  very  much  like  that  of 
his  brother  ;  and  crest  and  device  equally  declared  that  haughty 
ambition,  which,  in  that  day,  marked  pretty  equally  the  Spanish 
and  Portuguese  adventurer.  It  bore  for  figure,  a  shower  of 
meteors  amidst  cloud  and  storm,  with  the  Latin  words — '•'•Inter 
turbas  illastris  " — "  Glory  amidst  the  storm."  He  was  certainly 
the  man  to  prefer  always  that  his  successes  should  be  the  fruits 
of  the  most  unmeasured  conflict.  But  we  need  linger  no  more 
in  our  preliminaries.  The  signal  sounds  ;  the  truncheon  of  the 
warder  is  waved  aloft ;  the  trumpet  sounds  the  charge ;  the 
heralds  cry  their  encouragement. 

"  To  it,  gallant  gentlemen  !  honor  awaits  brave  deeds ;  your 
ladies  look  on  you  with  smiles.  Glory  is  for  him  that  conquers, 
— '  Glory  amid  the  storm' — The  falcon  has  her  wings;  why 
should  he  not  soar  to  the  heights  of  glory  ?" 

These,  and  a  hundred  other  cries,  from  the  audience  as  well 
as  the  heralds,  rang  throughout  the  amphitheatre,  as  the  brothers, 
parting  from  their  places,  rushed  to  the  encounter  with  a  shock 
that  thundered  along  the  earth.  The  lances  were  shivered  fa- 
mously ;  new  ones  were  supplied  in  a  moment ;  again,  the  wild 
rush  was  heard,  rather  than  seen ;  and  again  came  the  fearful 
concussion.  The  lances  were  again  shivered  at  the  encounter, 
but  it  was  observed  that  Andres  de  Vasconselos  was  nearly  im- 
seated  in  the  shock.  In  truth,  he  had  a  narrow  escape,  and  he 
felt  it ;  and  his  anger  was  heightened,  and,  as  he  stood  again 
confronting  his  opponent,  a  bitterer  feeling  of  hostility  than  he 


240  VASCONSELOS. 

had  known  before,  worked  within  his  bosom  ;  and  his  teeth  were 
gnashed  together ;  and  grasping  the  new  spear  with  which  he 
had  been  furnished,  he  muttered  to  himself,  as  he  shook  it  aloft, 
— "  If  thou  fail  me,  I  will  look  to  surer  weapon." 

The  third  passage  was  waited  for  with  great  impatience  by  the 
multitude.  The  previous  combats  seemed  to  have  been  mere 
child's  play  to  these.  Every  one  felt  that  the  present  passages 
were  marked  by  passion  much  more  serious  than  those  of  chiv- 
alric  courtesy,  even  when  stimulated  by  ambition,  or  urged 
by  .the  desire  of  doing  greatly  in  the  eyes  of  love  and  beauty. 
The  spectators  were  now  hushed  and  breathless.  The  occasional 
cries  of  the  heralds,  repeating  the  old  formulas  of  encouragement, 
seemed  very  unmeaning  sounds  in  respect  to  such  a  conflict. 
They  were  felt  almost  as  impertinences ;  and,  indeed,  by  this 
time,  the  heralds  themselves  .seemed  to  arrive  at  this  opinion,  for 
they  suddenly  became  silent.  All  now  was  eager  expectation. 
The  signal  followed,  and  the  passage.  There  was  the  same 
fearful  concussion,  as  before ;  the  clouds  of  dust ;  the  confusion. 
But  the  results  were  more  decided,  and  the  encounter  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  wild,  sharp  cry,  full  of  rage  and  fury.  Soon,  Philip 
de  Vasconselos  emerged  out  of  the  dust-cloud,  and  coursed  once 
round  the  ring ;  a  moment  after,  Andres  was  beheld,  on  foot, 
with  his  battle-axe  in  his  hand,  and  darting  after  his  brother  with 
the  ferocity  and  speed  of  a  tiger.  The  steed  of  the  younger 
knight  was  down,  rolling  over  in  the  sand  ;  by  what  hurt  or  ac- 
cident, no  one  could  conjecture.  He,  himself,  had  all  the  action 
of  a  madman.  His  fine  scarf  was  riven  ;  his  armor  covered  with 
dust,  and  his  helmet  thrown  off.  His  hair,  which  was  long, 
floated  wildly  ;  his  face  was  crimson  with  passion,  and  his  eyes 
glared  with  a  fury  which  threatened  to  destroy  everything  in  his 
path.  He  made  headlong  way  towards  Don  Philip,  who  had 
now  drawn  up  his  steed,  and  stood  quietly,  if  not  calmly,  await- 
in"-  him  at  the  barriers,  which  was  as  far  back  as  he  could  re- 

O  '  •  * 

cede.  Here  he  must  stop  and  encounter  what  should  happen, 
if  he  would  not  incur  the  disgrace  of  seeming  to  fly,  which  would 
have  befallen  him  should  he  again  put  his  horse  in  motion  to 


A  BROTHER'S  STRIFE.  241 

escape  from  further  assault.  He  had  not  long  to  wait.  Blinded 
with  rage  and  mortification,  Andres  soon  made  up  to  him,  and 
at  once  sprang  towards  him,  swinging  the  battle-axe  above  his 
head.  Then  it  was  that  Philip  exhibited,  in  highest  degree,  the 
wonderful  spirit  and  activity  which  he  possessed.  In  an  instant 
he  threw  himself  off  from  his  steed,  and,  without  weapon  of  any 
kind  in  his  grasp,  confronted  his  brother.  The  latter  at  first 
seemed  not  to  perceive  the  unarmed  condition  of  Don  Philip, 
and  all  expected  that  he  would  strike,  from  the  manner  in  which 
he  shook  his  battle-axe  and  pushed  forward.  But,  seeing  ere  he 
struck  that  his  brother  was  unarmed,  he  cried  out  hoarsely — 

"  Get  thee  thy  weapons !" 

"  Put  down  thine,  Andres !"  was  the  calm  reply  of  Don 
Philip — "  wherefore  this  madness  ?" 

"  Madness !"  cried  Don  Andres  ;  "  if  thou  darest  call  me  a 
madman,  I  will  brain  thee  as  thou  stand'st !  Get  thy  weapons,  I 
tell  thee ;  thy  triumph  is  not  complete.  There  must  be  other 
trials  between  us !" 

"  Go  to,  Andres  :  thou  art  foolish  ;  thou  art  fevered  !  would'st 
thou  strike  at  thy  brother  in  anger  T' 

"  I  see  no  brother  ;  I  know  no  brother  !  I  know  thee  as  mine 
enemy  only,  and  I  will  slay  thee  as  a  dog.  Thou  shalt  have  no 
triumph  over  me  /" 

With  these  passionate  words,  showing  him  entirely  beyond 
control  of  reason,  he  at  once  strode  forward,  and  struck,  with 
deadly  and  determined  aim  and  stroke,  full  at  the  crest  of  Don 
Philip  !  But  the  latter  was  prepared  and  watchful,  though  un- 
armed. He  lightly  stepped  aside  from  the  blow,  which  was  such, 
that,  if  it  had  encountered  his  head,  had  certainly  brought  him 
down,  powerful  as  he  was.  He  stepped  aside  and  escaped  it ;  and, 
before  the  younger  brother  could  recover  his  position,  he  grasped 
him  by  the  arm  :  and  with  such  a  vigor  as  no  one  deemed  him 
to  possess,  he  wrested  the  axe  from  the  grasp  of  the  infuriate 
youth,  with  as  little  seeming  effort  as  if  the  latter  had  been  only 
a  child  in  his  hands.  All  this  occupied  far  less  time  than  we 
have  employed  in  telling  it ;  but  the  interval  had  been  sufficient 
11 


242  VASCONSELOS. 

to  have  allowed  the  warder  of  the  field  to  have  thrown  down 
his  truncheon  if  he  had  pleased  to  do  so,  and  for  the  heralds  and 
guards  to  have  interposed.  Nuno  de  Tobar  had  entreated  Don 
Balthazar  to  arrest  the  combat  when  it  promised  to  be  bloody, 
but  he  was  unheeded. 

"  There  is  danger,  I  tell  thee,  Don  Balthazar  !  Don  Andres 
hath  no  control  of  himself  in  his  passion,  and  see  you  not  that 
the  victory  already  rests  with  Don  Philip  f 

"  Nay,"  said  the  other — "  three  strokes  may  be  taken  with 
the  sword  or  battle-axe,  according  to  the  wishes  of  the  combat- 
ants, after  the  passage  with  the  lance." 

"  Only  where1  the  passage  with  the  lance  results  in  no  ad  van- 
tage  to  either,"  was  the  reply  of  Tobar. 

"  Yet,  I  see  not  why  they  should  be  checked  in  a  new  passage, 
if  the  parties  desire  it." 

"  But  Don  Philip,  you  perceive,  does  not  desire  it." 

"  Then,  by  my  troth,  he  loses  some  of  his  renown  as  a  war- 
rior. He  should  face  his  foe  with  any  weapon." 

Nuno  de  Tobar  was  furious  at  these  words,  and  greatly  appre- 
hensive; and  his  passion  might  have  exploded  in  a  violent 
challenge  of  the  justice  and  magnanimity  of  the  Adelantado 
himself,  to  whom  he  now  turned  in  impatient  appeal,  when  he 
was  arrested  by  the  sudden  termination  of  the  combat,  as  we 
have  described  it.  The  next  moment  beheld  Don  Andres  dis- 
armed, and  the  battle-axe  in  the  grasp  of  his  brother.  Then  it  was 
that  Don  Balthazar  threw  down  his  truncheon,  and  the  trumpets 
sounded  the  retreat.  But  Don  Andres  heeded  not  these  signals. 
He  confronted  Don  Philip  with  a  passion  as  reckless  as  before,  but 
this  time  with  the  feelings  of  despair  and  shame,  rather  than  of  rage 
and  hate. 

"  Slay  me  ! "  he  cried,  "  strike,  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  as  at 
thy  enemy  !  Thou  hast  the  weapon.  Thou  hast  disgraced  me 
eternally.  Put  a  finish  to  thy  work.  Smite !  my  head  is  un- 
covered to  thy  blow !  " 

"  Go  to,  Andres  ;  this  is  folly  ;  thou  hast  fever  in  thy  veins, 
my  brother.  It  is  the  madness  of  thy  blood,  not  thy  heart,  that 


THE   END   OF  THE   CONTEST.  243 

has  wrought  thee  to  this  unhappy  conduct.  I  cannot  harm  thee, 
Andres.  I  love  thee,  my  brother,  whatever  thou  may'st  do,  or 
feel,  or  say  !  " 

With  these  words,  Philip  flung  the  battle-axe  to  a  distance. 
Andres  cast  himself  down,  with  his  face  upon  the  earth ;  but,  as 
the  heralds  and  squires  came  up,  he  rose  again  quietly,  and  suf- 
fered himself  to  be  led  out.  He  was  borne  away  with  a  raging 
fever  in  his  veins,  and  that  night  was  in  high  delirium. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

*'  We  charge  these  women  leave  the  court, 
Lest  they  should  swoon." 

MIDDLBTON. — THK  OLD  LAW 

THE  effect  of  this  scene  was  prodigious  upon  the  whole  assem- 
bly. Its  events  were  just  of  that  sort  to  fill  the  minds  and  excite 
the  imaginations  of  such  a  swelling,  earnest,  grave  yet  passionate 
people  as  the  Spaniards ;  and,  for  awhile,  they  were  all  hushed, 
as  if  overwhelmed  with  emotion,  and  still  expecting  other  events 
of  even  greater  excitement  to  follow.  They  were  conquered  by 
the  Portuguese.  The  deportment  of  Philip  de  Vasconselos  had 
been  such  as  to  impress  every  spectator  with  the  full  sense 
of  his  noble  character  and  perfect  heroism,  and  there  were 
none  now  so  bold  as  to  challenge  his  triumph  or  his  fame  ! 
Verily,  he  had  gone  through  the  most  fearful  of  all  trials  for  such 
a  soul.  He  had  survived  them,  though  he  suffered  from  them 
still.  He  had  overcome  those  worst  enemies,  his  own  passions, 
which,  wronged  on  every  hand,  and  fiercely  assailed  by  the  one, 
above  all  others,  who  should  have  approached  them  with  nothing 
but  love  and  veneration,  had  been  able  to  subdue  themselves 
within  just  limits,  and  permitted  him  to  rise  equally  above  his 
enemies  and  his  own  rebellious  blood  !  This  was  not  lost  upon  the 
spectators.  Their  hush  was  only  the  prelude  to  their  applause. 
Their  instincts,  kept  in  lively  play  all  the  while,  and  making  them 
forgetful  of  all  their  former  dislikes  and  jealousies,  had  brought  their 
final  judgments  right.  Their  souls,  as  tney  beheld,  became  fully 
conscious  of  the  rare  beauty  of  his  carriage  and  his  performances 

244 


DON  PHILIP'S  TRIUMPH.  245 

throughout ;  and  the  gentle  humanity,  which,  at  the  closing 
scene,  had  appeared  so  conspicuously  in  unison  with  the  most 
determined  courage  and  the  coolest  conduct.  The  wildest  shouts 
testified  their  admiration,  and  declared  the  complete  triumph  of 
the  hero  of  the  day,  not  only  over  all  opponents,  but  over  their 
own  stubborn  and  ungenerous  prejudices.  They  did  not  see  the 
bitter  smile  that  mantled  the  face  of  Philip  as  he  heard  these  up- 
roars of  admiration.  He  knew  the  value  of  popular  applause, 
and  quietly  remounting  his  steed,  he  stood  in  silence  waiting  for 
the  summons  of  the  warder,  to  the  foot  of  the  dais,  where  the 
Adelantado  was  to  place  the  crown  upon  the  lance  of  the  con- 
queror, who  was  required,  in  turn,  to  lay  it  at  the  foot  of  the 
lady  whom  he  should  designate  as  the  Queen  of  Love  and  Beauty. 
It  was  her  task  to  accept  the  tribute,  and,  lifting  up  the  trophy  so 
deposited,  to  place  it  on  the  head  of  her  champion. 

There  was  no  reluctance,  now,  on  the  part  of  the  Adelantado, 
to  do  justice  to  the  knight  of  the  Falcon.  De  Soto,  it  is  true, 
had  his  prejudices  as  well  as  his  people ;  and  his  pride  had  been 
somewhat  stung  by  the  reserve  which  had  been  exhibited  towards 
him  by  Philip  de  Vasconselos ;  to  say  nothing  of  the  offence 
which  the  latter  had  given,  in  announcing  his  doubts  in  respect  to 
his  farther  connection  with  the  expedition  to  Florida.  But, 
though  a  proud  and  selfish  person,  De  Soto  was  not  a  base  one. 
He  had  his  moments  of  prejudice  and  passion,  but  was  by  no 
means  insensible  to  greatness  of  soul  and  heroic  character,  even 
in  the  instance  of  an  enemy.  He  was  thoroughly  disarmed  by 
the  conduct  of  Philip  ;  and  some  compunctious  visitings  of  con- 
science now  made  him  anxious  to  atone,  as  far  as  possible,  by 
the  most  prompt  acknowledgment,  for  his  past  coldness  and  ne- 
glect. He  bade  the  warder  do  his  duty,  and,  at  a  signal  given, 
and  amidst  a  passionate  fanfare  from  the  whole  corps  of  trum- 
peters, the  knight  of  the  Falcon  was  led  up  to  the  foot  of  the  dais. 
Here  he  dismounted,  uncovered  his  head,  ascended  the  rude 
steps,  which  had  been  hastily  placed  for  the  purpose,  and  pre- 
sented his  lance  at  the  bidding  of  De  Soto,  who,  in  a  warm  and 
graceful  speech,  of  a  few  sentences,  placed  upon  it  the  trophy  as- 


246  VASCONSELOS. 

signed  to  the  conqueror.  This  was  a  beautiful  coronet,  or  cap, 
of  rich  purple  velvet,  encircled  with  a  chaplet  of  pearls,  in  the 
centre  of  which  flamed  a  single  but  large  diamond,  surrounded 
by  rubies  and  other  precious  stones.  Don  Philip  received  the 
prize  with  the  most  graceful  obeisance,  but  in  profound  silence ; 
then  advancing  to  the  foot  of  the  seat  occupied  by  Olivia  de  Al- 
varo,  he  knelt,  and  laid  the  coronet  before  her,  dropping  his  lance 
at  the  same  moment  beside  him.  Again  the  trumpets  sounded 
in  a  soft  but  capricious  Saracenic  strain,  while  the  heralds  cried 
aloud  the  name  of  the  lady  ;  and  De  Soto,  rising,  proclaimed 
her  the  Queen  and  Beauty  of  the  tournament.  We  shall  say 
nothing  of  the  envy  sparkling  all  the  while  in  the  eyes  of  the 
other  fair  dames  in  that  fair  assemblage  ;  in  the  breast  of  each 
of  whom,  no  doubt,  there  had  lurked  hopes  more  or  less  lively, 
during  the  progress  of  the  day.  However  slight  their  hopes, 
when  it  was  seen  who  was  to  be  the  successful  champion,  we  can 
still  easily  understand  how  there  should  be  many  disappoint- 
ments. Of  course,  there  was  much  criticism,  also,  upon  the  choice 
of  the  knight  of  Portugal ;  and  while  most  of  them  could  ad- 
mit cheerfully  his  superior  claims  as  a  warrior, — his  skill,  spirit, 
and  address,  in  the  tourney, — there  were  not  a  few  to  regret 
that  so  much  heroism  should  be  accompanied  by  so  very  bad  a 
taste.  But  the  multitude  applauded  the  taste,  no  less  than  the 
valor  and  conduct  of  the  knight. 

It  was  now  the  task  of  Olivia  de  Alvaro  to  place  the  coronet 
on  the  brows  of  her  champion.  This  was  no  easy  task,  however 
grateful.  She  had  been  an  excited  spectator  of  the  scene ;  she 
had  felt,  with  constant  tremblings  of  heart  and  frame,  all  the 
vicissitudes  of  the  conflict.  These  were  rendered  trebly  acute  in 
consequence  of  that  secret  history  of  grief  of  which  we  know 
something  already;  the  action  of  which,  on  a  system  whose 
nerves  were  all  disordered,  was  of  a  sort  to  enfeeble  and  excite 
at  the  same  moment ;  so  that  but  little  strength  was  left  her  for 
the  performance  of  her  task  at  the  closing  scene  of  the  day.  But 
she  arose,  after  a  brief  delay  ;  the  Knight  of  the  Falcon  still  on 
his  knees  before  her.  There  was  a  dead  silence  now  in  the  as* 


THE  QUEEN  OF  LOVE  AND  BEAUTY.      247 

sembly.  All  were  curious  to  hear  what  she  would  say  ;  for  she 
was  not  simply  to  place  the  crown  upon  the  head  of  the  cham- 
pion,— she  was  to  accompany  the  act  with  words  of  acceptance 
of  the  honor  conferred  upon  herself, — to  bestow  applause  upon 
his  performances,  and  to  utter  those  exhortations  to  future  deeds 
of  chivalry  and  valor,  which  are  supposed  naturally  to  follow, 
where  Beauty  encourages,  and  Love  is  the  gentle  counsellor. 
She  arose  slowly,  amid  that  general  hush  of  expectation,  which, 
by  the  way,  increased  her  confusion ;  stooped  to  the  crown  which 
rested  upon  the  footstool  where  Philip  had  laid  it ;  lifted  it,  and 
advanced  a  step,  in  order  to  place  it  on  his  head.  At  this  mo- 
nu'iit  their  eyes  met ;  a  sudden  and  ashen  paleness  overspread 
her  cheeks ;  her  heart,  beating  wildly  but  a  moment  before, 
seemed  at  once  frozen  within  her ;  and  she  tottered,  sunk  for- 
wards, and  would  have  fallen  to  the  floor,  but  that  the  swift  arms 
of  her  lover  caught  and  sustained  her.  She  had  faulted  from  the 
conflict  of  emotions  which  she  could  no  longer  sustain  and  live ! 


CHAPTER    XX. 

"  Invention  is  ashamed, 
Against  the  proclamation  of  thy  passion, 
To  say  thou  dost  not    ....    thy  cheeks 
Confess     one  to  the  other." 

ALL'S  WELL  THAT  E.VDS  WELL. 

THEN  it  was,  while  all  was  commotion  in  the  assembly,  that 
the  passionate  love  of  Don  Philip  for  the  unconscious  damsel  in 
his  arms,  overcame  and  banished  all  the  previous  calm  and 
steadfastness  in  his  manner.  He  thought  her  dead.  There  was 
no  color  in  her  cheeks,  no  life  in  her  eyes,  no  pulsation  in  her 
veins.  He  cried  aloud  for  succor,  while  drawing  her  closely  to 
his  bosom,  as  if  to  warm  her  anew  with  his  own  tumultuous 
fires.  Before  any  one  could  interpose,  he  had  borne  her  back  to 
the  seat,  supporting  her  with  vigorous  arm,  and  appealing  to  her 
consciousness  by  the  most  endearing  efforts  and  expressions.  He 
was  at  that  moment  freed  from  all  the  conventional  restraints 
which  had  hitherto  made  his  passion  cautious,  and  taught  con- 
cealment as  the  proper  policy  of  love.  He  was  now  not  unwil- 
ling that  the  world  should  hear  what  he  had  hitherto  never  de- 
clared to  her,  and  with  the  sense  of  her  danger  and  his  loss,  he 
became  indifferent  to  the  opinion  of  those  around,  a  regard  to 
•which  is  so  characteristic  of  the  proud  and  sensitive  nature.  But 
he  was  not  suffered  long  to  indulge  in  a  situation  which  he  found 
so  painfully  sweet.  He  was  brought  to  consciousness  by  the  in- 
terposition of  other  persons.  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro  was  soon 
at  his  side,  and,  laying  his  hand  with  rather  a  rude  grasp  upon 
the  shoulder  of  our  knight,  he  bade  him  release  the  lady  to  those 
who  could  better  effect  her  restoration,  and  who  were  the  most 
proper  persons  to  attempt  it.  Next  came  the  wife  of  Tobar,  followed 
by  the  lady  of  the  Adelantado  and  others,  to  whom  Philip  was 

248 


ANDRE'S  ILLNESS.  249 

compelled  to  resign  her.  To  these  he  yielded  her,  though  with 
reluctance.  He  shook  off  the  grasp  of  Don  Balthazar,  and  an- 
swered his  looks  and  words  with  an  abruptness  of  manner,  and  a 
glance  of  fire,  which  declared  the  hostility  and  scorn  which  he 
truly  felt,  and  in  which  the  uncle  was  taught  to  read  the  language 
of  defiance.  Olivia  was  borne  away  by  the  female  attendants. 
The  Lady  Isabella  would  have  had  her  conveyed  to  her  palace, 
but  Don  Balthazar,  in  a  very  resolute  manner,  resisted  this  ar- 
rangement, and  she  was  conveyed  at  once  to  his  own  residence. 
The  amusements  of  the  day  were  over.  The  trumpets  sounded  the 
retreat ;  the  audience  slowly  melted  away  ;  but  long  before  the 
assembly  was  dispersed,  Philip  de  Vasconselos  had  disappeared 
from  the  public  sight. 

lie  proceeded  at  once  to  the  lodgings  of  his  brother,  but  did 
not  see  him,  as  he  feared  that  his  presence  would  only  increase 
the  disorder  of  the  latter.  He  ascertained,  however,  that  his  de- 
lirium and  fever  did  not  increase,  and  that  he  was  well  at- 
tended. The  physician  of  De  Soto  himself  had  been  sent  him, 
and  had  administered  some  soothing  drugs,  after  taking  from 
him  a  goodly  quantity  of  blood.  He  still  remained  with  him, 
and  would  not  suffer  him  to  be  disturbed.  The  attack  had  been 
severe  as  sudden,  but  it  was  not  of  prolonged  duration;  and  judi- 
cious treatment,  seconded  by  the  youth  and  vigor  of  his  constitu- 
tion, enabled  him,  after  a  few  days,  to  rise  again  to  his  feet.  In  a 
week  he  was  able  to  resume  his  armor,  and  to  exercise  at  the 
head  of  his  little  company.  But  he  remained  comparatively  fee- 
ble for  some  time,  and  the  mortification  which  he  had  suffered 
hung  like  a  dark  shadow  upon  his  soul.  He  became  habitually 
gloomy  and  morose ;  addressing  himself  wholly  to  military  stu- 
dies and  exercises,  and  never  suffering  himself  to  be  seen  in  so- 
sciety.  Gradually  he  began  to  entertain  more  just  and  generous 
feelings  towards  his  brother,  though  from  this  period  there  was 
no  longer  any  cordiality  between  them.  The  events  which  were 
yet  to  occur  served,  in  great  degree,  to  disarm  him  of  that 
jealous  hostility  to  Philp  which  had  been  the  sole  cause  of  his 
recent  madness.  Philip,  though  solicitous  of  his  health  and 
11* 


250  VASCOXSELOS. 

safety,  never  obtruded  himself  upon  him.  He  was  content  to 
leave  to  time  the  work  of  repair.  But  we  must  not  anticipate. 

The  recovery  of  Olivia  de  Alvaro  was  much  more  rapid  than 
that  of  her  rejected  lover.  What  remedies  were  employed 
in  her  case,  were  not  suffered  to  be  known ;  but  the  very  next  day 
found  her  able  to  sit  up  and  converse.  Leonora  de  Tobar  sate  some 
time  with  her.  Donna  Isabella  was  also  pleased  to  visit  her, 
and  other  ladies  shared  in  their  friendly  attentions.  But  while 
recovering  her  consciousness,  and  in  some  degree  her  health,  Olivia 
sank  into  a  sort  of  sober  melancholy,  which  no  arts  or  attentions 
of  her  female  companions  could  possibly  reach.  An  exterior  of  the 
most  stolid  indifference  encountered  the  friendly  solicitude  which 
sought  to  soothe  and  heal ;  and  while  her  deportment  was  all  gen- 
tleness and  meekness,  her  heart  was  yet  closed  against  all  efforts  to 
probe  its  secret,  or  ascertain  its  apprehensions  or  its  wants.  To  Le- 
onora de  Tobar  her  case  seemed  a  singularly  mysterious  one.  She 
knew  that  she  loved  Philip  de  Vasconselos  beyond  all  other  men. 
She  was  now  sure,  as  was  all  the  world,  that  he  loved  her  beyond 
all  other  women.  What  more?  Why  should  either  of  them  be  un- 
happy ?  The  whole  affair  was  very  incomprehensible  to  her,  and 
afforded  her  a  fruitful  and  constant  subject  for  expostulation  with 
the  sufferer,  and  speculation  with  all  other  parties. 

Don  Balthazar  was  the  only  person  who  properly  understood 
the  whole  difficulty.  He  had  his  fears  of  the  case,  as  well  as  a 
full  knowledge  of  its  peculiarities.  His  hope  of  security,  strange 
to  say,  was  based  upon  what  he  knew  to  be  the  virtues  of  the 
damsel.  He  relied  wholly  upon  her  justice  and  magnanimity,  to 
defeat  the  suit  of  the  Knight  of  Portugal.  But  his  fears  were  still 
active.  He  apprehended  that  the  weakness  of  the  woman  would 
get  the  better  part  of  her  sense  of  justice.  He  knew  the  sensu- 
ous nature  of  the  sex,  and  the  paramount  strength  of  their  feel- 
ings. Could  Olivia  really  be  capable  of  rejecting  the  lover  whom 
she  preferred  before  all  others,  simply  because  of  a  cold  senti- 
ment of  honor  and  propriety  ?  Why  should  she  not  keep  her  se- 
'  cret,  and  thus  secure  her  triumph?  He  still  dreaded  that  she 
would  resolve  on  this,  He  had  too  little  nobleness  himself  to 


THE  GUARDIAN'S  APPREHENSIONS.  251 

rely  upon  that  of  another ;  and  the  recent  event  lessened  mate- 
rially  his  confidence  in  the  firmness  of  her  virtue,  which  was  at 
present  all  his  security.  Of  course  it  is  understood  that  he  can 
never  be  reconciled  to  her  union  with  Philip,  or,  indeed,  with  any 
man.  We  have  but  imperfectly  unfolded  our  narrative  thus  far, 
if  it  be  now  necessary  that  we  should  endeavor  to  establish  this 
fact.  His  selfishness,  at  once  of  avarice  and  passion,  was  a  set- 
tled necessity,  and  utterly  adverse  to  her  finding  happiness,  ac- 
cording to  the  dictates  of  her  affections. 

But  it  was  necessary  to  confirm  her  in  her  previously  expressed 
and  virtuous  resolution  of  self-denial.  He  was  required  to 
strengthen  her  determination  against  the  pleadings  of  her  own 
heart,  as  well  as  of  her  lover,  to  lessen  the  strength  of  her  feel- 
ings by  stimulating  her  propriety,  and  to  keep  her  virtuous  mag- 
nanimity active,  as  a  barrier  against  her  passion.  This  he  now 
perceived  to  be  more  powerful  than  he,  or  even  she,  had  previ- 
ously suspected.  He  had  watched  her  through  all  the  caprices 
of  the  tournament,  and  had  seen  the  warmth  and  violence  of  her 
feelings,  written  in  her  face  and  action  amidst  all  the  changes  of 
the  struggle.  "  She  is  not  to  be  trusted  to  her  own  sentiments," 
was  his  reflection.  "  She  may  resolve  as  she  pleases,  in  her  quiet 
moments  of  thought ;  but  let  Philip  de  Vasconselos  kneel  im- 
ploring at  her  feet,  and  she  will  probably  forget  all  her  honorable 
resolves.  She  will  yield  to  his  entreaties,  before  she  is  conscious 
of  the  extremity  of  her  admissions.  I  must  provide  against  this." 
Let  us  see  what  are  his  processes  for  effecting  his  objects. 

Olivia  was  reclining  upon  a  couch  in  the  apartment  opening 
upon  the  verandah.  There  Don  Balthazar  suddenly  presented 
himself.  She  looked  up  at  his  appearance,  with  eyes  full  of  so 
sad  a  reproach,  that,  had  he  been  capable  of  a  generous  impres- 
sion, would  have  made  him  instantly  contrite.  But  he  was  not 
capable  of  the  nobleness  of  self-repruach.  A  more  cold,  selfish, 
heartless  nature,  never  dwelt  in  the  breast  of  man.  He  took 
his  seat  beside  her,  and  assumed  his  most  conciliating  manner. 

"  Well,  my  child,  you  are  better,  and  I  am  glad  to  see  it ;  but 
you  have  quite  too  many  chattering  visitors.  They  will  onlv 


252  VASCONSELOS. 

weary  and  distress  you.  The  tongue  of  that  silly  wife  of  Tobar 
is  enough  to  madden  any  invalid,  and  there  are  others  of  like 
sort,  who  do  not  so  much  desire  to  soothe  or  amuse,  as  to  ex- 
ercise their  tongues  and  curiosity.  What  you  want  is  peace  and 
quiet." 

"  Peace  and  quiet !  where  am  I  to  find  them  ?" 

"  Why  not  1  There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  find  both, 
if  you  are  only  moderate  in  your  expectations.  It  is  the  unrea- 
sonable and  extravagant  hopes  of  youth  alone  that  keep  peace  and 
quiet  from  any  bosom." 

"  Hopes !  Do  you  really  suppose  that  I  entertain  any  hopes  T' 

"  Indeed  !  Do  you  not?  and  why,  if  you  entertain  no  hopes, 
do  you  encourage  these  painful  and  oppressive  sensibilities,  that 
keep  you  only  in  a  continual  agony  1" 

"  It  is  for  this  very  reason,  that  I  can  entertain  no  hopes,  that 
these  agonizing  sensibilities  are  mine.  But  I  surely  need  not  say 
this  to  you." 

"  My  dear  child,  do  not  deceive  yourself.  You  do  entertain 
hopes  and  expectations,  and  it  is  these  that  keep  alive  and  active 
these  moods  and  sensibilities.  I  know  you  better  than  you  do 
yourself.  You  may  deceive  yourself,  in  moments  of  solitude, 
with  the  idea  that  you  have  nothing  to  live  for.  But  events  will 
be  apt  to  put  all  these  notions  out  of  your  head.  You  are  now 
so  much  better  that  you  will  soon  have  other  visitors." 

"  Who !  what  mean  you  ?" 

"  Your  Portuguese  cavalier  will  soon  be  here,  no,  doubt,  and  on 
his  knees  before  you.  It  is  inevitable,  after  what  has  taken  place, 
that  he  will  come,  and  must.  He  has  fairly  committed  himself 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world ;  he  will  soon  find  it  necessary  to  com- 
plete his  progress  by  a  formal  offer  of  his  hand." 

"  And  you  think  I  will  accept  him  ?" 

"  Well ;  there  is  some  danger  of  it.  The  truth  is,  my  dear 
child,  you  are  not  the  mistress  of  your  own  affections.  He  has 
too  much  enslaved  your  imagination  to  suffer  you  to  escape  hitn. 
fou  love  him  quite  too  intensely  to  reject  his  prayer." 

"  Alas !  It  is  because  I  so  much  love  him  that  I  will  reject  him. 


THE  EVIL   GENIUS.  253 

I  may  be  degraded,  uncle — I  am — and  you  well  know  why  I  am, 
and  who  has  degraded  rne  ; — but  I  am  not  base  !  I  will  not  sink 
lower  in  my  own  esteem,  in  doing  such  a  terrible  wrong  to  a  na- 
ture so  noble  as  that  of  the  knight  of  Portugal,  by  uniting  his 
honor  with  my  shame!" 

"  Who  knows  that  there  is  any  shame  ?" 

"God!" 

"  Ah !  perhaps !  But  you  have  no  apprehension  that  he  will 
be  at  any  pains  to  make  it  known  ?" 

"I  know  not  that.  Guilt  is  ever  in  danger  of  exposure. 
Shame  is  like  the  cloud,  that,  whether  the  star  will  or  will  not, 
rises  at  any  hour,  with  the  winds,  to  blot  its  beautiful  surface. 
But  whether  the  world  knows  or  not — whether  God  permits  the 
truth  to  be  revealed  or  not — alters  not  the  case  to  me.  It  is 
enough  that  /  know  the  terrible  shame  that  hangs  upon  my  soul 
like  night.  Enough,  that  I  too  much  love  Don  Philip  de  Vas- 
conselos  to  bestow  my  consciousness  of  ignominy  upon  him." 

"  This  is  all  mere  sentiment,  my  child." 

"  Sentiment !  But  you  speak  as  if  you  really  desired  that  I 
should  wed  with  the  knight  of  Portugal  ?" 

"  No !  By  Satan,  no  !  I  hate,  I  loathe  the  man,  and  I  love 
you,  my  child.  Never,  with  my  consent,  shall  you  take  him  to 
your  arms." 

"  Why,  then,  leave  it  to  doubt  1  Why  impose  upon  me  the 
task  which  you  yet  think  me  too  weak  to  execute  ?  Forbid  him 
the  house — forbid  him  the  quest — and  put  an  end  to  all  your  ap- 
prehensions." 

"  Would  that  process  be  effectual  ?  No,  no !  my  child,  that 
will  never  answer.  Our  customs  here,  in  Cuba,  would  not  suffer 
it.  What  would  everybody  say  of  me  1  It  would  wrap  me  in 
a  thousand  strifes  and  embarrassments.  Besides,  Don  Philip  de 
Vasconselos  would  not  suffer  any  such  evasion  ;  and  the  Adelan- 
tado  would  sustain  him  in  the  assertion  of  the  right  to  see  you. 
No!  no!  he  must  not  be  denied  every  opportunity,  and  the  whole 
matter  must  be  left  to  your  own  decision." 

"That   is   already  made!     1  can  never  be  the  wife  of  Don 


254  VASCONSELOS. 

Philip.  Were  1  other  than  the  thing  I  am,  I  should  know  nc 
greater  happiness.  As  I  am,  it  is  impossible  that  I  should  think 
of  happiness,  or  should  so  wrong  him  in  my  desire  for  it,  as  tc 
unite  my  grief  and  shame  to  his  honor  and  his  fortunes." 

"And!  repeat,  you  know  not  yourself.  You  have  not  the 
strength  for  this.  You  mean  as  you  say,  no  doubt,  now  that  you 
are  comparatively  calm,  and  when  he  is  not  present ;  but  when 
he  appears,  and  you  see  him  before  you — at  your  feet, — where 
will  be  your  fine  resolutions?  You  will  yield.  You  will  con- 
sent,— you  will  forget  all  your  nice  sentiments,  and  keep  your 
secret,  arid  be  happy!" 

"  Leave  me,"  she  said  calmly.  "  You  do  not  know  me.  Still 
less  do  you  know  how  you  annoy  and  humble  me.  Enough  for 
you  that  you  are  secure  in  your  wishes,  whatever  may  be  mine. 
I  cannot  marry  Don  Philip  ;  I  will  not ;  though  I  tell  you  frankly, 
that  I  should  know  no  greater  secret  of  happiness  than  this,  were 
this  possible.  You  have  doomed  me  to  loss  of  all !  Leave  me 
now." 

"  But  you  must  take  your  medicine,  Olivia." 

"  I  will  take  nothing  at  your  hands." 

"Why  not?" 

"  You  have  drugged  me  enough.  I  fear  to  drink — to  eat — al- 
most to  breathe — knowing  upon  what  poisons  you  have  fed  me." 

"  This  is  foolish.  On  my  honor,  you  have  nothing  to  fear 
now." 

"  Oh !  if  you  asseverate  so  solemnly,  I  am  sure  there  is  dan- 
ger !  Take  it  away !  I  will  not  drink,  though  I  perish." 

"  Obstinate !  I  tell  you,  this  is  the  potion  provided  by  the 
physician." 

"  It  has  passed  through  your  hands." 

"  Am  I  poison  ?" 

"  Ay,  death  !  worse  than  death  !  shame,  horror,  hell !  Do  not 
vex  me  ; — leave  me !  I  will  trust  you  in  nothing,  I  tell  you  !  Is 
it  not  enough  that  you  have  destroyed  every  hope  ;  would  you 
torture  me  without  a  purpose  ?" 


DREAMS   OF   HAPPINESS.  255 

"  You  are  mad !  Is  it  torture  that  I  should  give  you  the  very 
medicine  which  has  been  prescribed  for  you  ?" 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  the  same !  You  have  the  art  to  alter 
the  nature  of  all  things  that  approach  me.  You  change  the  help- 
ful to  the  hurtful — the  good  to  the  bad.  By  the  Holy  Virgin, 
uncle,  were  it  not  for  the  wrong  that  I  should  do  to  another,  I 
should  wed  with  the  knight  of  Portugal,  if  only  to  find  an 
avenger — to  be  sure  of  one  to  whom  I  might  say — Slay  me  this 
monster,  who  has  destroyed  me,  soul  and  body !" 

Don  Balthazar  hurled  the  cup  of  physic  to  the  floor,  and  with 
a  look  of  the  fiercest  anger,  and  a  half-muttered  curse,  he  strode 
hastily  out  of  the  apartment. 

"  Thank  God  !"  said  the  poor  girl  as  he  disappeared,  "  I  breathe 
more  freely  !" 

And  she  sunk  into  a  long,  sad  revery ;  and  the  thought  of  Don 
Philip  came  to  her,  and  brought  with  it  fancies  of  the  most  bright 
and  cheering  felicity.  She  fancied  him  at  her  feet ;  she  thought 
of  herself  in  his  arms.  The  world  shut  out,  in  the  lone  security 
of  their  mountain  hacienda,  she  said  to  herself — "  Surely  this  is 
happiness, — this  is  security  and  peace  !  And  why,"  she  asked  of 
herself,  "  should  I  not  enjoy  this  peace,  this  security,  this  happi- 
ness 1  What  have  I  done  that  I  should  deny  myself  to  live  ?  Am 
I  guilty  of  this  crime — this  shame?  Is  it  mine1?  Am  I  not  a 
wretched  victim  only  of  the  toils,  and  the  arts,  and  the  superior 
powers  of  another  ?  Have  I,  in  my  own  soul,  consented  to  this 
surrender  of  my  innocence  to  the  spoiler  ?  Wherefore  should  I 
suffer  more  ?  Have  I  not  suffered  enough  ?  Why  should  I  not 
be  happy  with  him  I  love,  true  to  him  ever,  and  never  willingly 
false  to  Heaven  or  myself?  It  is  a  secret  from  all  but  one,  this 
shame  that  is  my  sorrow ;  and  that  one,  for  his  own  sake,  dare 
not  whisper  it  to  the  bird  that  flies !  Alas !  alas !  my  heart, 
whither  would  you  carry  me?  Would  you  have  me  abuse 
his  noble  trust  for  your  pleasure?  Oh!  be  still,  lest  in  my 
weakness  I  commit  a  wrong  as  great  as  that  which  I  have  suf- 
fered !" 

Such,  in  brief,  were  the  prolonged  meditations  of  the  unhappy 


256  VASCONSELOS 

woman  throughout  the  melancholy  hours  of  her  solitude.  Her 
passion  for  Philip  de  Vasconselos  was  now  perpetually  suggest- 
ing to  her  mind  fresh  arguments  against  the  virtuous  resolution 
which,  in  cooler  moments,  had  been  the  conclusion  of  her  thought. 
She  felt  that  her  resolution  was  growing  momently  more  and 
more  weak;  but  still  she  combated  herself;  argued  with  her 
own  thought,  strove  nobly  against  her  heart,  and  all  its  really 
innocent  desires,  and  bewildered  finally,  ajid  exhausted,  she  sur 
rendered  herself  at  last  to  the  dreamiest  revery,  such  as  naturally 
occurs  to  the  sensuous  nature,  in  the  delicious  climate  in  which 
she  dwelt.  In  this  revery,  in  which  every  breath  was  soft,  every 
glance  fair  and  wooing,  every  influence  possessing  the  magic  of  a 
spell  upon  the  affections,  she  found  temporary  refuge,  against 
that  severer  virtue  which  counselled  nothing  less  than  self-denial 
and  sacrifice !  Ah  !  who  is  strong  for  such  a  sacrifice  when  every 
passion  of  the  dependent  and  loving  nature  wars  against  it ! 
Will  Olivia  de  Alvaro  be  able  to  keep  her  vow,  when  Philip  de 
Vasconselos  bows  before  her  1  -She  trembles  as  she  thinks  of  it ; 
but  still — she  thinks  of  it !-  Her  thought  evermore  recurs,  after 
long  wandering,  to  his  expected  coming  !  Will  he  come  ?  will 
he  not  ?  Can  he  otherwise  ?  And,  should  he  come, — and  when 
he  comes, — then — shall  she  find  the  strength  to  say  to  him  "  de- 
part !" — And  should  he  linger — should  he  deny  to  go — should 
he  ask  "  wherefore  ?  " — what  answer  shall  she  make  ?  Can  she  say, 
I  have  no  love  to  give  in  return,  when  she  really  has  nothing  in 
her  heart  but  love  for  him  1  And  if  she  cannot,  in  truth,  and 
from  her  heart  say  this,  what  plea  shall  justify  her  denial  of  his 
prayer  1  It  is  thus  that  she  begins  to  conjure  up,  for  her  own 
conscience,  the  difficulties  which  stand  in  the  way  of  her  own 
self-sacrifice.  It  is  thus  that  the  ingenious  passions  argue  the 
case  with  the  honest  thought.  Which  shall  triumph  in  the  end  1 
Olivia  de  Alvaro  is  a  most  weak,  most  loving  woman — she  is 
passionate,  too,  with  all  the  intense  fires  of  the  south.  She 
means  nobly,  her  thought  is  rightly  advised ;  and  she  would  act 
according  to  the  dictates  of  a  justly  governed  conscience ;  but, 
when  the  passions  strive,  what  mind  is  strong  against  them  '? — • 


THE  STRUGGLE.  257 

when  the  heart  loves,  with  entire  devotion,  where  are  the  thoughts 
which  shall  extinguish  its  glowing  fires  ]  As  well  say  to  the  rising 
floods  of  ocean — "Sink  back,  with  all  your  billows,  and  rest 
calmly  in  the  bosom  of  your  floods."  The  struggle  between  soul 
and  heart,  in  the  case  of  Olivia  de  Alvaro,  is  but  begun.  How 
will  it  end  ?  Verily,  there  is  very  good  reason  why  Don  Bal- 
thazar should  be  apprehensive.  Truly,  he  knows,  better  than 
his  niece,  how  great  is  her  weakness  !  But  he  will  not  leave 
her  wholly  alone,  to  fight  the  battle  with  her  passions.  He  will 
frequently  come  mockingly  to  her  succor,  and,  by  torturing  her 
pride  into  passion,  will  seek  to  subdue  the  force  of  other  pas- 
sions. He  has  all  the  subtlety  of  the  serpent :  will  he  use  it 
successfully  "?  It  is  very  certain  that  he  will  spare  no  arts  to 
defeat  the  hopes  of  the  two  young  hearts,  whor  but  for  his  evil 
working,  had  long  since  been  rendered  happy. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

"  Hold  thee  :  there's  my  purse.     I  give  the.e  not  this  to  suggest  thee  from  thy  matter 
thou  talkest  of  :  serve  him  still." 

ALL'S  WELJ.  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

THE  public  sports  which  the  Adelantado  had  provided  for  the 
gratification  of  the  people  of  Cuba  were  all  finally  ended.  We 
have  not  thought  proper  to  describe  the  amusements  which  fol- 
lowed on  the  third  day,  however  interesting  to  the  spectators ; 
for  the  simple  reason  that  they  do  not  immediately  affect  the  con- 
dition of  our  dramatis  personal.  They  still  demanded  the  per- 
sonal attendance  of  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro,  however,  as  war- 
der of  the  field ;  and  this  gave  a  little  respite  to  the  suffering 
Olivia  in  her  solitude.  We  have  already  noted  an  interview  be- 
tween the  niece  and  her  uncle,  after  the  third  day  of  the  tourna- 
ment ;  but  there  was  one  event,  occurring  at  the  close  of  that 
day,  which  it  becomes  us  not  to  suffer  to  pass  unnoticed.  After 
the  passages-at-arms,  of  all  sorts,  were  fairly  over, '  and  the 
trumpets  had  merrily  sounded  the  signals  for  the  dispersion  of 
the  assembly — while  the  crowd,  moving  to  and  fro  in  all  direc- 
tions, resembled  the  shifting  scenes  of  a  panorama — Don  Bal- 
thazar called  to  him  an  officer,  and,  speaking  aside,  said : 

"  Has  the  slave,  Mateo,  been  taken — the  mestizo,  the  mata- 
dor, whose  capture  I  confided  to  thy  hands  ?" 

"  He  has.  not,  Senor.     He  has  eluded  all  our  efforts." 

"Thou1  hast  suffered  these  sports  to  keep  thee  from  thy  duty; 
else,  how  should  he  escape  thy  search  ?" 

"  No,  Seuor- " 

"  It  must  be  so,  I  tell  thee ;  for  the  fellow  is  not  likely  to 
leave  Havana  so  long  as  these  amusements  last;  and  there 
should  be  no  places  of  hiding  in  the  city  which  should  be  be- 

258 


THE  ALGUAZIL.  259 

yond  the  reach  of  a  good  officer  !  See  to  it!  This  night  is  all 
that  is  left  thee  to  effect  his  capture.  Half  of  these  people  will 
be  off  to  the  country  by  the  dawn ;  he,  probably,  among  them. 
S,vk  him  at  the  tents  and  tables  where  they  game.  All  of 
his  class  have  a  terrible  passion  for  cards  and  dice.  At  the  cock- 
pits he  may  be  found.  He  hath  possibly  brought  with  him  some 
favorite  birds  from  the  country.  He  drinks,  too,  with  a  rare 
j.a^sion,  which  will  no  doubt  carry  him  to  the  shops  where  the 
aguardiente  is  to  be  had.  Get  thee  a  dozen  of  thy  fellows,  well 
counselled,  who  know  the  man,  and  set  them  on  the  quest  for 
'  him  in  all  these  places.  If  you  take  him,  you  shall  all  be  well  re- 
warded. If  not,  I  shall  endeavor  to  find  officers  who  need  no 
exhortation  to  their  duty.  There  is  no  reason  why  he  should 
not  be  found.  He  showed  himself  quite  freely  and  fearlessly  at  the 
bull-fight,  relying,  I  suppose,  on  certain  changes  of  dress  and 
costume.  He  is  hardly  in  hiding  any  where,  and,  while  in 
Havana,  will  no  doubt  be  found  at  one  or  other  of  the  places 
I  have  mentioned.  Stint  not  your  efforts,  nor  the  numbers  of  your 
men,  nor  the  needful  money  ;  and,  if  you  take  him,  bring  him  to 
j  me  at  "  the  Grove ;"  at  midnight,  even ;  so  that  ye  delay 
not  after  you  have  taken  him.  Enough  !  see  to  it,  Diego,  as  you 
would  be  sure  of  my  favors !" 

"  Senor,  I  will  not  sleep  in  this  search." 

"  Good  !  to  it  at  once,  for  he  will  doubtless  soon  leave  Havana 
for  the  mountains." 

The  Hidalgo  separated  from  the  Alguazil,  and  both  disap- 
peared from  sight.  Within  the  same  hour  Don  Balthazar  might 
be  seen  riding,  on  a  famous  black  charger,  towards  the  retreat, 
without  the  city,  where  the  Senorita,  his  niece,  maintained  her 
solitude.  It  was  but  a  little  before  this,  that  the  very  outlaw, 
the  mestizo  slave,  Mateo,  might  have  been  seen,  on  foot,  pursu- 
ing the  same  route.  The  latter  had  fairly  entered  the  woods, 
when  he  heard  the  sound  of  horse's  feet  behind  him.  He  im- 
mediately sheltered  himself  from  sight  in  a  dense  thicket  of 
bamboo,  and,  from  his  place  of  retreat,  beheld  the  knight  ride 
slowly  by.  The  outlaw  grinned  savagely  as  he  perceived  his  old 


260  VASCOXSELOS. 

master,  whom  he  remembered  by  numerous  cruelties,  such  as,  ii 
that  day,  but  too  much  distinguished  the  fierce  warriors  of  Spaii 
when  dealing  with  their  Indian  and  negro  slaves.  We  have  already 
mentioned  that  Mateo  was  a  fugitive ;  having  fled,  not  simply  fron 
the  cruelty  of  his  master,  but  from  the  consequences  of  his  owr 
crimes.  He  had  murdered,  in  a  sudden  broil,  one  of  the  officers 
of  the  estate  of  the  Sefiorita  Olivia,  to  which,  indeed,  he  belonged : 
the  control  of  Don  Balthazar  over  him  resulting  only  from  his 
being  the  guardian  of  his  niece.  From  that  moment,  Mateo 
disappeared,  having  sought  shelter  in  the  contiguous  mountains, 
which  were,  at  that  early  period,  entirely  unexplored.  He  had 
been  subsequently  heard  of,  on  several  occasions,  but  only  in  the 
character  of  a  robber.  A  price  had  been  set  upon  his  head,  but 
he  had  always  contrived  to  elude  the  pursuit  of  justice.  His 
mother,  the  old  woman  Anita,  in  the  employ  of  Don  Baltha- 
zar, as  we  have  seen,  and  the  willing  creature  of  his  infamous 
arts  and  practices,  had  not  forborne  to  plead  the  cause  of  her 
son  ;  and  she  probably  would  have  succeeded,  long  before  her 
death,  in  procuring  his  pardon,  could  she  have  been  successful  in 
persuading  Mateo  to  take  the  essential  initiative  in  such  a  matter, 
by  surrendering  himself  to  the  estate.  But  Mateo  was  not 
ready  to  incur  such  a  peril,  and  distrusted  all  the  assurances  of 
the  Don,  whom  he  too  well  knew  readily  to  confide  in.  Besides, 
the  violent  and  brutal  character  of  his  passions  kept  him  con- 
tinually working  against  his  own  pardon,  by  the  commission  of 
new  crimes  and  misdemeanors.  Like  all  of  his  race,  he  was  too 
fond  .of  the  pleasures  of  the  crowd,  and  such  as  were  promised 
by  the  exhibitions  of  the  bull-ring  and  the  tournament,  to 
forego  the  temptation,  at  whatever  hazard,  of  being  a  witness  of 
the  grand  spectacles  offered  to  the  public  by  the  magnificence  of 
Don  Hernan  de  Soto.  But  Mateo  relied  upon  his  disguises ; 
upon  the  shaggy  hair,  the  wild  beard,  and  the  strange  costume 
which  he  wore  ;  and  upon  the  fact  of  a  three  years'  absence  from 
all  the  eyes  that  knew  him.  He  felt  himself  sufficiently  estranged 
from  all  eyes,  and  did  not  doubt  that  even  his  mother  would 
fail  to  recognize  her  son.  But  he  did  too  little  justice  to  the 


THE   OUTLAW.  261 

keen  sight  and  tenacious  memory  of  Don  Balthazar.  Of  the 
death  of  the  old  woman,  Mateo  had  learned  nothing  until  he 
reached  Havana,  a  few  days  before.  But,  in  that  time,  he  had 
seen  his  sister,  the  sullen  girl,  Juana,  on  several  secret  occasions  ; 
had  heard  all  her  tidings ;  had  listened  to  all  her  complaints,  and 
had  decided  upon  the  course  to  be  pursued  for  attaining  all 
necessary  remedies  for  his  own  and  her  alleged  wrongs.  Of 
these  remedies  we  shall  learn  hereafter.  We  need  not  say,  per- 
haps, that  he  laughed  at  all  the  labors  of  his  mother,  in  striving 
to  procure  his  forgiveness,  as  a  fugitive  slave.  He  was  one  of 
those  reckless  persons,  too  savage  for  subjection,  too  indolent  for 
toil,  who  prefer  to  appropriate  the  labors  of  others  to  the  exer- 
cise of  any  of  his  own  ;  and,  by  the  strong  hand,  or  sleight  of 
hand,  contrived  to  extract  a  very  comfortable  living  out  of  a 
world  whieh  he  thought  good  for  nothing  else.  Now  that  he 
was  in  Havana,  he  was  resolved  to  bring  about  the  settlement 
of  all  his  affairs  in  that  city ;  and  his  own  and  sister's  accounts 
promised  to  employ  him  actively  for  a  time.  His  old  master 
was  his  chief  debtor  ;  and,  that  he  did  not  emerge  from  his  bamboo 
shelter,  and  insist  upon  immediate  payment,  while  the  knight 
was  passing,  was  simply  because  he  thought  it  very  possible  that 
Don  Balthazar  did  not  carry  a  sufficient  amount  in  funds  about 
with  him,  to  enable  him  to  make  satisfactory  settlement.  It 
would  have  been,  otherwise,  quite  as  easy  to  spring  out  from  his 
hiding-place  upon  the  Don,  as,  from  the  corridor  into  the  bull-ring, 
giving  the  coup  de  grace  to  El  Moro  !  The  knight  was  suffered 
to  proceed  in  safety  to  his  house,  whither  Mateo  followed  more 
slowly,  and  not  until  the  darkness  had  fairly  covered  the  hacienda. 
We  shall  suffer  several  hours  to  elapse  without  reporting  their 
events ;  but  we  must  suppose  that  they  have  not  been  suffered 
to  pass  unemployed  either  by  the  Hidalgo  or  the  outlaw.  Nay, 
we  beg  to  state  that  both  parties  have  been  busy,  though  we  do 
not  just  now  care  to  go  into  a  narrative  of  their  several  doings. 
Enough,  that  towards  midnight  Don  Balthazar  ceased  from  his 
labors  for  the  night ;  and  in  his  chamber,  with  his  dressing-gown 
about  him,  and  his  limbs  released  in  some  degree  from  the  gar 


262  VASCONSELOS. 

nients  worn  throughout  the  day,  he  rests  at  length  apon  a  wicker 
settee  of  bamboo,  and  meditates  through  the  graceful  clouds  of 
aromatic  smoke  that  ascend  volume  after  volume  from  his  much 
beloved  cigar.  Don  Balthazar,  though  somewhat  blaze,  is  yet 
not  wholly  insensible  to  the  good  things  of  this  life,  speaking 
only  of  the  physical  enjoyments.  Indeed,  it  is  to  the  blaze 
chiefly  that  the  "  creature  comforts"  rise  into  paramount  value 
and  estimation.  It  is  when  the  purer  tastes  and  the  proper  de- 
sires of  the  mind  have  been  perverted,  or  abused,  or  lost,  that 
one  seeks  recompense  by  appeals  to  appetites  which,  until  then, 
are  kept  in  honest  subjection.  Don  Balthazar  did  not  rely  on 
his  cigar  wholly  for  his  happiness ;  a  flask  of  generous  wine 
rested  on  a  table  beside  him,  from  which,  ever  and  anon,  he  re- 
plenished his  goblet.  He  emptied  it,  perhaps,  much  more  freely 
than  he  was  aware.  The  troubles  of  his  mind  made  him  some- 
what unconscious  of  the  frequency  of  his  potations,  and  their 
effects  working  favorably  upon  his  mood,  seemed  to  justify  the 
appetite  in  still  further  seeking  succor  from  this  source.  Don 
Balthazar  had  survived  all  the  proper  tastes.  His  appetites 
were  wholly  artificial.  His  tastes  had  become  prurient ; 
passions  had  been  succeeded  by  mere  desires  depending  upon 
diseased  fancies.  These,  as  chronic,  always  exert  a  tyrannou 
power  over  their  possessor,  and  compel  him  to  pursuits  and  ob- 
jects which,  in  calm  moments,  seem  wholly  undeserving  of  any 
effort.  A  thousand  times  did  the  mere  reason  and  common  sense 
of  the  knight  counsel  him  to  throw  off  habits  and  desires  which 
were  equally  evil  and  profitless  ;  but  in  vain.  A  single  moment 
of  dreaming  revery  brought  back  the  tyrannous  fancies  in  all 
their  power.  The  cigar,  the  wine, — these  were  potent  influences, 
though  unsuspected,  in  behalf  of  his  evil  moods ;  and  his  will  no 
longer  seconded  the  suggestion  of  his  better  moments.  It 
would  be  doing  him  great  injustice  to  say  that  he  did  not  repeat- 
edly deplore  the  weaknesses  of  his  nature,  and  the  crime  and  the 
cruelty  of  which  it  was  the  source.  But  his  strength  was  not  a 
strength  in  behalf  of  virtue.  It  was  the  strength  of  evil  passions 
only — of  passions  arriving  at  sole  power  by  reason  of  their  un- 


CONSCIENCE  AND   PHILOSOPHY.  263 

scrupulous  exercise,  and  in  their  dying  embers  exerting  a  new 
and  more  evil  sort  of  influence  in  consequence  of  their  very  de- 
cay and  feebleness.  He  knew,  and  felt,  and  reproached  himself 
at  moments  for  his  terrible  abuse  of  authority  and  advantage  in 
the  ease  of  his  unhappy  niece.  He  was  sometimes  made  con- 
scious of  the  awful  spectre  of  his  deceased  brother,  looking  down 
upon  him  with  loathing  and  anger,  and  the  saddest  reproach  in 
his  face ;  sometimes  he  fancied  his  voice  in  his  ears,  and  at  other 
times  he  beheld  suddenly,  as  it  were,  a  glimpse  of  the  fierce 
visage  of  "  the  Biscayan  mother"  of  Olivia,  flaming  with  indigna- 
tion, before  his  eyes.  His  conscience  thus,  at  times,  came  to  the 
assistance  of  his  better  reason,  and  filled  him  with  virtuous  reso- 
lution. But  it  is  not  easy  for  one  accustomed  for  thirty  years 
to  give  the  full  reins  to  his  moods  and  passions,  to  re-conquer 
them  and  recover  the  ascendency  of  thought  and  will  over  habit. 
Habit  is  the  most  unbending  of  all  mortal  tyrannies,  and  the 
better  genius  of  Don  Balthazar  struggled  vainly  against  the  ap- 
petites which  he  had  so  constantly  fed  in  its  despite.  And  now, 
when  some  better  feelings  were  endeavoring  to  assert  themselves 
in  his  bosom — when  a  lingering  feeling  of  commiseration  for  the 
poor  child  whom  he  had  so  cruelly  abused  had  prompted  him  to 
reflections  upon  his  own  selfishness,  which,  seeking  a  momentary 
and  even  mocking  gratification,  was  destroying  the  very  life  of 
hope  in  the  bosom  of  the  girl — destroying  her  peace  for  ever,  and 
all  the  gladdening  impulses  which  make  youth  happy — he  harden- 
ed himself  against  the  kindlier  impression  by  a  recourse  to  some 
of  those  hard  philosophies,  which,  in  his  case,  had  already  over- 
thrown  all  the  authority  as  well  of  humanity  as  religion. 

"  What  matters  it,"  said  he  to  himself,  filling  his  goblet  with  a 
fresh  supply  from  the  wine-flask, — "  what  matters  it  in  the  end  1 
These  passions  of  love  are  in  fact  nothing  but  the  caprices  of 
fancy ;  a  brief  space  will  reconcile  her  to  the  loss  of  this  knight 
of  Portugal,  whose  youth,  grace,  and  noble  bearing  are  the  only 
attractions ;  when  he  has  fairly  embarked  for  Florida  she  will 
forget  him,  and  she  will  then  remember  me  with  as  much  tender- 
D  s  any  other  lover.  She  will  feel  that,  though  I  have 


264  VASCONSELOS. 

wronged  her,  it  was  because  of  my  passion  that  I  did  so ;  and 
my  love  will  justify  in  her  mind  the  exercise  of  the  power  which 
I  had  upon  her.  If  not,  what  is  she  but  a  woman,  created  for  the 
pleasure  and  the  delight  of  man ;  and  why  should  she  not  min- 
ister to  my  delight  as  well  as  to  another  1  Women,  if  well 
treated,  kindly,  and  without  neglect,  readily  reconcile  themselves 
to  the  condition  from  which  they  cannot  escape.  She  will  here- 
after consent  willingly  to  that  which  she  has  vainly  thought  to 
oppose  ;  and  in  the  necessity  of  her  case  will  become  aware  of 
what  is  grateful  in  it.  Already,  I  think,  she  begins  to  improve. 
She  grows  milder  every  day.  For  a  week  she  has  exhibited 
none  of  those  fitful  bursts  of  passion  which  she  inherited  from 
that  tigress  mother ;  and  her  eyes,  though  they  still  look  sadly 
and  reproachfully,  show  no  longer  that  fierce  hate  and  loathing 
which  distinguished  them  before.  She  grows  pliant — she  is 
yielding.  Let  me  but  baffle  this  knight  of  Portugal,  and  I  have 
her  wholly  in  my  power.  He  must  depart.  She  must  reject 
his  petition ;  and  if  not,  then  I  must  find  a  way  to  silence  him 
forever." 

Don  Balthazar  deceived  himself  in  one  thing.  The  mildness 
of  Olivia's  present  aspect  was  scarcely  in  proof  that  she  was  now 
more  reconciled  to  his  power  than  before.  We  may  say,  in  this 
place,  that  she  was  schooling  herself  to  a  more  cunning  policy — 
that  she  was  opposing  art  to  art,  and  was  never  more  resolved, 
against  her  uncle,  than  at  the  moment  when  she  appeared  most 
resigned  to  her  fate.  Her  game  was  to  lull  to  sleep  his  vigilance 
by  appearing  more  submissive.  She  was  resolved  to  escape  from 
his  tyranny  as  soon  as  she  might  hope  to  do  so  w'ith  safety.  As 
yet,  however,  she  had  formed  no  deliberate  plan  for  doing  so.  She 
had  vague  projects  and  purposes  in  her  mind,  ill-defined  and  aim- 
less at  present ;  but,  in  any  scheme,  to  quiet  his  suspicions  and 
disarm  his  vigilance,  were  the  first  objects,  necessary  to  the  suc- 
cess of  any  other.  These,  in  the  end,  might  ripen  into  something 
definite  and  clear,  and  in  the  meantime,  her  policy  was  single, 
and  thus  far  evidently  successful.  Don  Balthazar  was  fatigued 
with  a  struggle  which  brought  only  fear  and  exhaustion  even  "with 


MATED  AND  JUAN  A.  265 

its  successes ;  and  was  quite  willing  to  believe  in  the  shows  of 
resignation,  on  the  part  of  his  victim,  by  which  he  hoped  to  en- 
joy more  easy  triumphs. 

As  thus  he  lay,  weaving  conjectures,  and  hopes  and  doubts,  in  the 
most  intricate  meshes  for  his  own  fancy,  he  was  surprised  by  a  sud- 
den and  most  unexpected  visitor.  But  it  becomes  us  to  speak  of 
the  proceedings  of  this  visitor,  before  we  formally  introduce  him 
to  our  Hidalgo.  We  have  seen  that  the  fugitive,  Mateo,  was  on 
his  way,  pursuing  a  like  route  with  Don  Balthazar,  when  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  latter  drove  the  outlaw  into  shelter.  He  saw  his 
ancient  master  speed  forward,  and  followed  him  at  his  leisure. 
A  little  after  nightfall,  stationed  in  a  lemon  thicket  near  the  dwell- 
ing, Mateo  gave  a  signal  whistle,  and  in  a  few  minutes  after,  was 
joined  by  the  servant  girl,  Juana.  She  was  his  sister ;  and,  rude 
and  sullen  in  her  intercourse  with  all  other  persons,  on  him  she 
bestowed  nothing  but  tenderness  and  affection.  Her  whole  de- 
portment and  character  seemed  to  change  on  their  meeting.  She 
clung  fondly  to  his  neck  ;  kissed  him  repeatedly  ;  called  him  her 
dear  brother,  and  would  have  continued  her  transports,  had  he 
not,  with  a  sort  of  good-natured  violence,  shaken  her  off. 

"  That  will  do,  that  will  do,  Juana.  There's  no  time  now  for 
kissing  and  foolishness.  I  have  come  for  work.  What  can  be 
done  ?  Is  there  a  good  chance  ?  Is  there  anybody  in  the  house, 
any  man  body  I  mean,  besides  Don  Balthazar  ?" 

"  No  !  nobody  !  There's  my  young  lady,  and  the  old  hound, 
Sylvia  ;  and  there's  the  cook  and  Pedro  ;  but  she's  in  the  kitchen, 
and  Pedro  is  gone  off  somewhere.  There's  nothing  to  prevent, 
now." 

"  Well,  you  must  show  me  a  way  to  get  in,  and  come  suddenly 
upon  the  old  woman.  The  master's  in  his  room,  eh  ?" 

"Yes,  he's  planning  some  more  wickedness,  all  to  himself. 
Even  if  Sylvia  was  to  cry  out,  he  could  hardly  hear  where  he  is; 
and  you  needn't  go  near  him  at  all." 

"  Ay,  ay  ;  but  I  must  go  near  him.  Pve  got  some  accounts  to 
settle  with  him,  now  I'm  here." 

"Don't  trust  yourself  with  him,  dear  Mateo.  He's  got  arms 
12 


266  VASCOXSELOS. 

in  his  room ;  matchlocks  and  guns,  and  sharp,  bright  swords 
He's  never  unprepared  for  mischief;  and  if  he  sets  eyes  on  you 
he'll  shoot  you." 

"  If  I  don't  shoot  him  :  but  that's  a  game  that  two  can  play  at 
just  as  well  as  one ;  and  I  hope  to  take  him  by  surprise.     1  must 
try  to  do  so.     Do  n't  you  fear.     I  have  arms  too,  just  as  well  as 
he,  and  I  know  just  as  well  how  to  use  them  ;  and  I'm  not  afrai< 
of  his  wickedness.     I've  got  some  of  my  own." 

"And  you  will  get  all  the  things  of  poor  mammy  ?" 
"  Won't  leave  a  hair  for  the  old  hag  that  robbed  you.     You 
shall  have  everything.     I'll  have  them  carried  off  and  hid  away 
for  you,  where  you  can  get  them  when  you  want  them." 

"  But  you  will  carry  them  with  you  to  the  mountains,  Mateo." 
"  And  how  will  you  get  the  use  of  them  there  ?" 
"  Why,  ain't  I  to  go  along  with  you,  brother  ?" 
"  You  go  along  with  me  ?  to   the  mountains  1     Why  what 
would  you  do  there,  poor  child  ]" 

"  Why,  live  with  you,  and  take  care  of  your  home  for  you." 
"  Home !"  with  a  fierce  chuckle.  "  I  have  no  home.  I  am 
never  a  week  in  one  place  together.  I  pass  from  mountain 
to  mountain ;  and  hide  in  one  cave  after  another ;  and  go  in  all 
sorts  of  weather ;  and  sleep  twenty  nights  under  the  open  sky, 
where  I  sleep  once  in  a  human  cabin.  The  outlaw  has  no  home, 
no  place  where  he  can  sleep  in  safety  ;  except  where  the  wild 
beast  keeps  watch  for  him  along  the  mountain-top,  and  frightens 
off  the  pursuer." 

"  I  don't  care,  Mateo  !    I  am  not  afraid  !     I  want  to  go  with 

you  wherever  you  go,  and  I'll  live  with  you,  and  work  for  you, 

and  fight  for  you,  too ;  just  as  if  I  were  a  man  and  not  a  woman." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  can  fight ;  you've  got  the  strength  for 

it,  and  I  reckon  you're  not  afraid  ;  but 

"  And  I  may  go  with  you  ?"  eagerly. 

"  No,  Juana,  child.  Not  just  yet.  I'll  come  for  you,  when- 
ever I'm  ready  for  you,  and  can  fix  you  in  some  certain  place." 

"Oh!  but  I  do  so  want  to  get  away  from  this  place.  You 
don't  know  what  I  suffer.  It's  only  a  wet-.k  ago  that  my  Lord 
beat  me  with  his  whip  over  my  face  and  shoulders." 


MATEO'S  ADVICE.  267 

"  Pooh  !  Pooh  !  what  of  that !  Do  you  suppose  if  you  were 
with  me,  I  shouldn't  beat  you  too  when  you  deserved  it?" 

"But  I  didn't  deserve  it,  Mateo." 

"  Oh  !  that's  all  nonsense.  Women  always  deserve  a  whip- 
ping, and  should  get  it  once  or  twice  a  week  to  keep  'em  sensible 
and  proper.  You  don't  know  when  you're  well  off.  With  me, 
you'd  want  bread  often  enough  ;  and  there  would  be  no  safety. 
You'd  have  to  start  out  of  your  bed  at  midnight,  to  fly,  when 
you  hear  the  bloodhounds  barking  up  the  hills.  It's  sometimes 
monstrous  hard  for  me  to  get  off.  How  would  it  be  with  you  1 
You'd  be  caught  by  the  dogs.  You'd  be  torn  to  pieces  ;  or  I'd 
have  to  risk  my  own  life  to  save  you.  Then,  if  you  fell  into  the 
hands  of  the  hunters,  you'd  be  a  thousand  times  worse  off  than 
ever.  They'd  send  you  to  the  Calabooza,  and  sell  you  to  a  hard 
master,  who'd  put  you  into  the  fields,  and  whip  the  blood  out  of 
your  body,  and  the  very  heart  out  of  your  bosom.  You'r  well 
off  as  you  are.  You've  got  a  good  mistress,  and  a  comfortable 
place,  and  plenty  to  eat  and  diink.  But  the  master  beats  you, 
you  say.  Well,  once  in  a  way,  perhaps  he  does ;  but  that  does 
you  no  harm.  I'd  have  to  beat  you  ten  times  as  much,  Juana, 
if  you  were  with  me.  'Twould  be  for  your  good,  I'd  do  it.  I'd 
know  you  wanted  it ;  I  know  you  of  old.  You'd  be  the  last 
person  in  the  world  to  try  and  quit  this  place,  if  it  hadn't  spoiled 
you.  You've  been  treated  too  well  here  ;  that's  the  whole  of  it. 
You're  best  off  where  you  are ;  I  know  all  about  it.  I'd  have 
been  better  off  at  the  hacienda  from  which  I  ran  away,  but  that 
I  was  a  bad  fellow,  who  couldn't  be  satisfied  anywhere,  and  would 
rather  steal  than  work.  It's  easier  to  me,  and  I  feel  better  after 
it.  But  I  know  it's  not  the  best  thing  for  me ;  and  I  know  it 
would  be  the  very  worst  thing  for  you.  It's  because  I  love  you 
as  my  sister,  Juana,  that  I'd  rather  you'd  stay  with  the  Sefiorita, 
and  be  honest  and  quiet.  She's  good  to  you,  /  know.  No  !  No? 
you  cannot  go  with  me.  Just  now,  you'd  only  be  in  my  way, 
and  in  the  way  of  danger  and  all  sorts  of  trouble.  But  I  hope 
soon  to  get  a  safe  hiding-place,  and  then,  if  you'r  ready  and 


268  VASCONSELOS. 

willing,  I'll  take  you  off.  For  the  present  you  must  keep  where 
you  are." 

It  was  in  this  way  that  the  outlaw  answered  the  entreaties  of 
his  sister.  He,  no  doubt,  came  to  a  right  conclusion  on  the  sub- 
ject. But  she  was  not  satisfied,  and  submitted  sullenly  to  the 
authority  with  which  she  had  never  been  accustomed  to  contend. 

"  But,"  she  added,  as  a  last  argument, — "  it's  not  the  Senorita 
only ;  she's  to  be  married,  they  say,  and  there's  to  be  a  new 
master." 

"  Well :  he  won't  eat  you !  There  can't  be  any  worse  than 
Don  Balthazar ;  and  no  master  in  the  world  will  hurt  the  slave 
that  serves  him  faithfully.  He'd  be  a  fool  to  do  it." 

"  But  I  don't  like  a  new  master ;  and  I  don't  like  to  be  under 
a  master  that's  a  Portuguese." 

"  Ho !  it's  one  of  the  Portuguese  that  she  is  to  marry ! 
Well,  if  it's  the  one  that  tumbled  the  handsome  ravalier,  Nuno 
de  Tobar,  she'd  be  well  officered.  He's  a  noble  soldier,  I  war- 
rant— rides  a  horse,  and  handles  a  lance,  as  if  he  was  made  for 
nothing  else.  If  I  were  sure  that  Don  Balthazar  would  not  go 
to  the  country  of  the  Apalachians,  I'd  volunteer  to  go  in  this 
same  knight's  company.  But  if  he  went,  he'd  be  sure  to  find 
me  out  in  time.  I  could  serve  such  a  man  as  the  Portuguese, 
and  cheerfully  acknowledge  him  my  master.  Every  man,  I 
think,  is  born  to  have  a  master,  and  is  never  quite  happy  till  he 
finds  the  right  one.  I  like  this  knight  of  Portugal.  I  don't  see 
what  you've  got  to  be  afraid  of  if  he  marries  your  lady." 

"  Ah !"  said  the  girl  stealthily, — "  he'd  never  marry  her,  if  he 
only  knew  what  I  know." 

"  What  do  you  know  ? — But  if  it's  any  harm  of  her,  Juana, 
don't  say  it,  for  your  life.  The  Senorita,  you  say,  has  always 
been  good  to  you.  Don't  you  turn  upon  her  like  a  snake.  Hush 
up,  and  keep  her  secrets,  as  if  they  were  your  own." 

"  Well,  it  ain't  so  much  her  secret  as  my  Lord's  !  Oh  !  Mateo, 
if  you  knew  what  a  born  devil  he  is,  and  how  he's  killing  the 
poor  young  lady — murdering  her  very  soul  and  body  !" 

"Ha!"  exclaimed  the  outlaw,  musingly — "Ha!"     A  new 


A  SUDDEN  THOUGHT.  269 

ight  seemed  to  dawn  upon  him  ;  and  he  paused,  and  laid  hia 
hand  upon  Juana's  shoulder.  "  I  see  !  Don't  you  say  a  word 
more !  Don  Balthazar — but  no  matter.  Show  me  now  how  to 
muzzle  this  old  hag,  Sylvia." 

In  a  few  moments,  the  two  had  disappeared  within  the  dwell- 
ing. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

"  Here  be  rare  plottings.     There's  more  mischief  in  that  one  head,  and  that  oily  tongue, 
than  in  all  the  country." 

THE  PARISH. 

SYLVIA,  that  arch  beldame,  as  Juana  esteemed  her,  in  the  sov- 
ereignty of  her  domain,  below  stairs,  was,  at  this  moment,  in  the 
enjoyment  of  her  highest  felicity.  She  had  a  good  supper  be- 
fore her ;  her  toils  of  the  day  were  ended,  and  she  was  congrat- 
ulating herself  upon  the  ease  and  security  with  which  she  could 
command  all  the  comforts  which  were  necessary  to  the  creature. 
Supper  over,  she  would  sleep,  and  the  dreams  that  would 
follow  might  reasonably  be  expected  to  be  all  very  pleasant  ones. 
But  Fortune  plays  fine  tricks  with  human  securities,  and  the 
Fates  are  always  busy  to  thwart  pleasant  anticipations ;  making 
no  sort  of  difference  between  those  of  the  nobleman  and  those  of  the 
drudge.  Humble  as  was  Sylvia's  secret  of  happiness,  it  was  des- 
tined to  disappointment;  and  care  nestled  in  the  cup,  the  grate- 
ful beverage  of  which  she  was  about  to  carry  to  her  lips.  In  this 
very  moment,  the  cruel  and  capricious  fortune,  in  the  aspect  of 
the  mestizo,  Mateo,  stood  quietly  behind  the  old  woman,  prepared 
to  cast  the  sack  over  her  head.  Suddenly  she  felt  a  rude  gripe 
of  huge,  strange  fingers  about  her  throat,  utterly  denying  her 
the  privilege  to  scream  ; — almost  to  breathe  !  Hardly  had  she 
been  thus  surprised,  when  a  shawl  was  passed  about  her  jaws, 
effectually  shutting  out  the  supper,  and  just  as  effectually  shutting 
in  all  sound.  She  strove  desperately  to  shriek,  but  the  voice  died 
away  in  a  hoarse  but  faint  gurgling  in  her  throat.  She  was  in  the 
hands  of  an  adroit  enemy.  Mateo  was  dexterous  in  his  vocation. 
He  had  enjoyed  some  practice  in  his  outlawed  life.  The  eyes  of 

the  old  woman  were  soon  enveloped  in  another  bandage,  and  as 
270 


THE  HEIRS  TAKING  POSSESSION.  271 

completely  denied  to  see,  as  her  mouth  to  speak  or  swallow.  A 
stout  cord  was  then  passed  about  her  arms,  and  thus  rendered 
hors  du  combat,  she  might  be  trusted  safely.  Every  obstacle  was 
thus  removed  from  the  way  of  the  conspirators,  and  Mateo  now 
gave  the  signal  for  the  appearance  of  Juana,  who,  till  this  mo- 
ment, had  kept  in  the  background.  She  was  not  long  in  show- 
ing herself.  Mateo,  in  the  meanwhile,  coolly  took  his  place  at  the 
table  which  bore  the  supper  of  Sylvia,  and  his  appetite  being  in- 
vigorated, we  may  suppose,  by  long  abstinence  and  previous  toils, 
he  proceeded  to  its  demolition  in  a  manner  which  would  have 
shocked  the  true  proprietor,  could  she  have  seen.  She  suspected 
no  doubt  what  was  in  progress,  but  there  was  no  remedy.  She  had 
to  submit  with  as  much  resignation  as  she  could  command. 

Meanwhile,  Juana  was  otherwise  busied  in  making  inquest  into 
the  secrets  of  the  prison-house.  Mateo  soon  joined  her,  and  the 
leading  purpose  of  the  conspirators  was  soon  made  apparent. 
There  were  closets  thrown  wide,  and  boxes  torn  open.  All  the 
goods  and  chattels,  the  accumulations  of  old  Anita,  to  which  Syl- 
via had  so  quietly  succeeded,  were  brought  out  from  their  hid- 
ing-places. One  may  conjecture  the  variety  of  treasures  which 
had  been  accumulated  by  both  these  ancient  beldames,  in  the 
course  of  half  a  century  of  peculation.  But  the  details  must  be 
left  to  conjecture.  Our  purpose  is  not  a  catalogue.  Mateo  and 
Juana  were  equally  busy.  The  latter  knew  where  to  look,  and  the 
former  how  to  secure.  His  machete  did  good  service  in  forcing 
open  boxes ;  and  every  sack  which  could  be  found,  was  appro- 
priated to  the  compact  accumulation  of  the  scattered  treasures. 
Slung  upon  the  broad,  strong  shoulders  of  the  outlaw,  they  dis- 
appeared one  by  one ;  transferred,  in  brief  space,  from  the  house 
to  the  adjoining  woods,  where,  it  seems,  the  mestizo  had  season- 
ably provided  a  sort  of  cart  for  their  better  conveyance  to  other 
hiding-places.  The  work  was  done  by  a  practiced  hand,  and  very 
effectually. 

Silvia  could  readily  conjecture  what  was  going  on,  but  she  was 
only  able  to  groan  and  grieve  internally.  She  did  not  remain 
passive,  however,  and  rose  up,  blinded  and  muzzled,  and  corded 


272  VASCONSELOS. 

as  she  was,  with  more  than  one  effort  to  interfere.  It  was  only 
by  one  or  two  emphatic  exhortations  from  the  heavy  fists  of  the 
outlaw,  that  she  was  persuaded  of  the  better  policy  of  submitting, 
without  farther  struggles,  to  her  fate. 

Supposing  this  work  to  be  fairly  over,  and  Mateo  in  full  pos- 
session of  all  his  mother's  chattels ;  perhaps  of  others  also,  to 
which  that  amiable  woman  could  never  assert  any  claim,  the  out- 
law found  it  becoming  to  transfer  his  attentions  to  another  of  the 
household.  His  next  work  was  with  the  master. 

We  have  seen  that  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro  was  disposed  to 
indulge  in  a  somewhat  meditative  mood ;  one,  however,  in  which 
conscience  was  allowed  to  play  only  a  subordinate  part  to  philos- 
ophy. The  pleasant  fumes  of  the  cigar,  the  grateful  potency  of 
the  wine-flask,  the  genial  sweetness  of  the  climate,  had  together, 
as  we  have  seen,  induced  finally  a  very  grateful  condition  of  rev- 
ery,  in  which  the  thoughts  of  the  mind  accommodated  themselves, 
with  a  rare  condescension,  to  the  humors  of  the  body.  The  re- 
sult was  a  condition  of  complacent  happiness,  which  was  stripped 
of  all  apprehensions.  There  were  no  clouds  in  his  sky,  that  he 
could  perceive :  and  for  the  troubles  of  his  hearth,  it  was  sur- 
prising how  slight  they  seemed,  and  how  soon  they  were  dis- 
persed, as  he  meditated  his  good  fortune,  his  own  resources,  and 
brought  the  energies  of  his  will  to  bear  upon  the  future.  It  was 
only  to  get  Philip  de  Vasconselos  out  of  his  path ; — and  for  this 
object  he  had  several  schemes,  even  if  the  love-sick  damsel  should 
fail  to  assert  her  virtuous  resolution  to  reject  him  ; — to  get  Olivia 
out  to  her  plantation,  and  under  proper  surveillance  ther"e  ;  and 
then  for  the  gold  regions  of  the  Apalachian,  and  one  or  two  cam- 
paigns. His  ambition  was  not  asleep  during  all  these  speculations. 
His  appetites  demanded  free  floods  of  gold ;  he  required  captive 
red  men  for  slaves  ;  he  had  fancies  of  royal  favor,  and  did  not  see 
why  he,  too,  should  not  become  the  Adelantado  of  newly -discov- 
ered and  treasure-yielding  provinces.  It  is  rarely  that  ambition 
is  satisfied  with  a  single  field  of  conquest.  It  throws  out  its  an- 
tennae in  all  directions  ;  it  grasps  wide,  right  and  left,  and  baits 
for  all  the  fish  in  the  sea ;  is  as  eager  after  power  as  money  ; 


THE   EEVERY   DISTURBED.  273 

after  slaves  as  conquest ;  after  love,  or  lust,  as  in  the  soul-starv- 
ing search  after  gold.  Don  Balthazar,  reclined  on  his  cane  sofa, 
head  thrown  back,  cigar  in  mouth,  and  wine-flask  at  his  elbow, 
was  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  great  variety  of  very  grateful  antici- 
pations. How  the  coldest  and  sternest  of  men  may  become 
dreamers,  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  insist,  with  the  experienced 
reader. 

It  was  the  very  moment  when  his  dreaming  mood  was  most 
active,  and  most  serenely  secure  in  the  possession  of  the  most 
teeming  fancies,  that  Mateo,  the  outlaw,  chose  for  appearing  in 
the  presence  of  the  knight.  Now,  we  must  do  the  mestizo  the 
justice  to  say  that  it  was  no  part  of  his  design  to  disperse  the 
pleasant  fancies  of  the  Don,  or  to  overthrow  the  castles  of  delight 
and  strength  which  his  imagination  was  erecting.  To  Mateo  it 
would  be  of  no  sort  of  moment,  how  wildly,  or  how  pleasantly, 
the  knight  might  dream.  He  might  smile  contemptuously 
upon  such  employments,  but  that  he  should  deliberately  set  him- 
self in  hostility  to  the  worker  for  their  overthrow,  is  really  not 
to  be  thought  of.  Bad  fellow  as  he  undoubtedly  was,  Mateo 
was  not  so  malicious.  He  had  very  different,  and  more  solid 
purposes.  If,  in  his  prosecution  of  these,  the  dreams  of  Don 
Balthazar  happened  to  be  dispersed,  the  evil  was  unintended ; 
and,  we  have  no  doubt,  if  properly  apprised  of  what  he  had  un- 
wittingly done,  he  would  have  expressed  his  devout  contrition. 
Certainly  he  little  conjectured  of  what  a  golden  domain  he  dis- 
possessed his  ancient  master  in  the  course  of  a  very  little  space 
of  time. 

Mateo  entered  the  apartment  of  the  Hidalgo  without  disturb- 
ing his  revery.  He  did  not  enter,  after  the  fashion  of  ordinary 
visitors,  through  the  door.  Mateo  was  no  ordinary  outlaw.  Not 
that  he  preferred  the  more  laborious  process  of  ascending  a 
column  of  the  verandah  and  climbing  in  through  the  window. 
But  simply  because  the  door  was  bolted  on  the  inside.  Don 
Balthazar  was  a  man  of  precautions — a  politician  who  knew  that 
reveries  were  not  properly  to  be  enjoyed,  unless  with  all  reason- 
able securities  first  taken.  That  he  left  his  window  unfastened, 


274  VASCOXSELOS. 

which  opened  upon  the  verandah,  was  simply  to  admit  the  breeze. 
and  he  never  once  fancied  that  his  reveries  could  render  him 
oblivious  to  the  approach  of  any  less  light-footed  visitor.  He 
was  mistaken.  Mateo  made  his  way  in,  without  disturbing  his 
sense  of  security.  Not  that  he  was  not  heard.  Don  Balthazar 
was  sensible  to  the  rustling  of  the  orange-tree  beside  the  veran- 
dah; he  heard  the  branches  scrape  rather  roughly  upon  the 
column.  But  that  might  be  occasioned  by  the  puff  of  wind  that 
smote  just  then  gratefully  over  his  brow  and  bosom ;  and  so 
believing,  his  eyes  were  shut,  and  the  thick  volume  of  smoke 
went  up  from  his  cigar,  increasing  in  mass  as  the  exciting  vision 
of  future  lordships  in  Florida  rose  before  his  imagination. 

On  a  sudden  he  was  awakened  to  full  consciousness.  His 
atmosphere  grew  heavier.  It  seemed  as  if  his  fancies  found  some 
obstruction,  and  could  no  longer  spread  their  wings  as  freely  as 
before.  He  felt  as  if  there  were  some  antagonist  influence  in  his 
sky,  which  had  suddenly  darkened  all  his  bright  stars.  And  this 
consciousness  certainly  preceded  the  opening  of  his  eyes.  He 
had  not  yet  opened  them,  when  his  ears  were  saluted  with  the 
tones  of  a  strange  speaker,  and  in  language  well  calculated  to 
startle  and  drive  him  from  his  world  of  visions. 

"  Well,  I  must  say,  your  Excellency,  that  you  are  very  com- 
fortable here." 

We  have  preferred  putting  the  patois  of  our  mestizo  into 
tolerably  correct  language,  taking  for  granted  that  the  reader 
will  readily  suppose  that  there  were  certain  differences  between 
the  speech  of  the  outlaw  and  his  superior.  This  will  suffice  for 
explanation.  We  have  no  taste  for  that  sort  of  literature  which 
makes  the  vulgar  speak  viciously,  when  what  they  have  to  say 
can  as  well  be  said  in  tolerable  phrase  and  grammar. 

Don  Balthazar  forgot  to  smoke.  The  cigar  dropped  from  his 
opening  lips.  His  eyes  unclosed.  His  head  was  partly  raised. 
Never  did  visage  more  express  confounding  wonderment.  There, 
quietly  seated  on  the  settee  directly  opposite,  was  the  outlaw, 
whom  he  had  given  it  in  charge  to  his  alguazils  to  arrest.  How 
came  he  there  ?  Was  he  not  in  bonds  1  Were  the  alguazils  in 


AN   UNWELCOME  VISITOR.  275 

waiting  1  They  had  probably  taken  the  fugitive,  and  were  at 
hand.  All  these  conjectures,  and  many  others,  passed  through 
the  brain  of  the  Hidalgo  in  a  single  moment  of  time.  But  they 
were  dismissed  as  rapidly  as  conceived.  The  outlaw  had  no 
appearance  of  constraint.  He  looked  rather  like  a  conqueror 
than  a  captive.  There"  were  no  chains  about  his  body  or  his 
wrist.  Never  sat  mortal  so  perfectly  at  his  ease,  his  great  bulk 
covering  half  of  the  slight  cane  settee  of  which  he  had  taken  pos- 
session. There  was  a  good-natured  mockery,  too,  in  his  face, 
that  betrayed  no  sense  of  inconvenience.  It  was  evident,  at  a 
second  glance,  that'he  was  not  only  no  prisoner,  but  not  aware, 
himself,  of  any  risk  of  becoming  one.  There  was  a  great  knife 
in  his  belt,  conspicuous,  which  the  eyes  of  Don  Balthazar  fastened 
upon.  It  was  the  very  weapon  with  which  the  matador  had  slain 
the  bull.  The  Don  began  to  feel  uneasy. 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  he  inquired  ;  though  he  need  not  have  done 
so  ;  for  he  knew  the  intruder  the  instant  he  set  eyes  upon  him. 
"  Don't  your  Excellency  know  ?" 
«  No !— who  ?  " 

"  Your  Excellency  has  a  bad  memory  for  old  acquaintance. 
Don't  you  remember  Mateo,  that  once  belonged  to  the  estate  of 
Don  Felix  ? " 
"  You  ? " 

"  Yes,  Senor,  the  same  !  I  was  a  bad  fellow,  you  know,  and 
wouldn't  work.  Work  don't  suit  me.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that, 
I'd  have  kept  on  the  estate  forever,  for  I  rather  liked  the  place, 
and  the  living  was  very  good.  But  it's  too  hard  to  have  to  work 
for  the  bread  one  eats,  and  I  always  preferred  to  take  it  where  I 
could  get  it  without  work.  I  don't  object  to  other  people  doing 
all  the  work  they  can.  It's  necessary,  perhaps  ; — some  must  do 
it,  indeed,  where  all  must  feed  ;  but  I  am  for  leaving  it  to  those 
that  like  it.  I  don't  like  it,  and  as  long  as  I  can  get  my  bread 
without  digging  for  it,  I'll  do  so." 
"You  killed  Pedro  Gutierrez  ?" 

"  Exactly  :  because  he  would  make  me  work  !  It  was  all  his 
fault.     I  warned  him  that  I  wouldn't  work ;  that  it  didn't  agree 


276  VASCONSELOS. 

with  me  ;  that  I  didn't  like  it.  He  tried  to  force  me,  and  blows 
followed ;  and  he  got  the  worst  of  them.  If  he  was  killed,  he 
brought  it  on  his  own  head." 

"  You  are  a  murderer,  and  an  outlaw." 

"  Good  words,  your  Excellency, — good  words  !  What's  the  use 
of  fouling  your  Excellency's  mouth  with  bad  ones?  I  don't  care 
much  about  words  at  any  time  ;  but  sometimes  they  make  me 
angry.  I  don't  want  to  be  angry  now,  as  I'm  in  a  special  good 
humor,  and  there's  no  need  to  quarrel  with  old  acquaintance.  1 
have  not  seen  you  so  long  that  it  does  me  real  good  to  look  upon 
you.  Your  Excellency  don't  seem  to  be  much  changed.  There's 
a  little  more  of  the  salt  in  your  hair,  your  Excellency,  and  it 
shows  a  little  in  your  beard,  now  that  you  let  it  grow  so  long. 
You  should  use  some  of  our  black  root  die,  which  will  make  the 
hair  as  young  as  when  you  were  only  twenty  !  " 

The  blood  of  the  knight  was  boiling  in  his  veins.  But  he  tried 
to  be  cool,  and  with  great  apparent  calmness,  said — 

"  Do  you  know,  Mateo,  that  if  you  are  once  taken  you  will  be 
garoted  without  trial  ?  " 

"  One  must  take  the  tiger,  your  Excellency,  before  you  can 
draw  his  teeth." 

"  But  they  will  take  you  !  You  cannot  resist  a  dozen  men — 
a  troop — an  army.  Now,  I  happen  to  know  that  you  have  been 
heard  of  in  Havana,  and  that  the  alguazils  are  in  search  of 
you." 

"  Ah  !  well !  They  will  hardly  look  for  me  here,  your  Excel- 
lency, and  I  shall  not  be  here  very  long.  I  shall  soon  be  off  for 
the  mountains.  Meanwhile,  I  must  take  my  choice.  Alguazils 
are  very  fine  trencher  men,  but  scarcely  of  much  account  where 
the  only  feed  is  steel  and  bullet.  I  shall  probably  escape  from 
these  of  Havana." 

"  But  what  brings  you  here  now  ?  " 

"  Well,  you're  something  concerned  in  the  affair,  though  per 
haps  you  don't  know  it.  I  heard  of  the  death  of  my  pooi 

mother,  Anita " 

"Ah  !  yes  ;  true,  she  was  your  mother." 


SETTLING   ACCOUNTS.  277 

"  I  rather  think  your  Excellency  ought  to  know,  since  you've 
been  promising  the  old  woman  to  get  me  pardoned  for  a  long 
time  past.  I  suppose  you  had  good  reasons  for  not  keeping  your 
promise." 

"  Yes ;  your  mother  knew.  I  told  her  that  no  pardon  was 
possible  until  you  should  come  in." 

"Very  clear,  your  Excellency;  and  now  that  I've  come  in, 
you  tell  me  that  the  alguazils  are  already  looking  after  me,  and 
that  I  shall  be  garoted  if  caught.  How  do  the  two  stories  tally, 
your  Excellency  ?" 

"  To  come  in  and  surrender,  is  quite  a  different  thing  from 
coming  in  as  you  do  now." 

"  Perhaps  so  ;  but  it  don't  matter  much  any  way.  As  for  my 
surrender,  your  Excellency,  before  I  have  the  pardon  under  the 
seal  of  the  king's  governor,  it's  not  to  be  talked  of,  it's  so  fool- 
ish." 

"  Then  what  brings  you  now  1 " 

"Ah  !  I  was  telling  you.  My  mother  died,  your  Excellency, 
very  suddenly,  nobody  knows  how.  I  hear  that  she  was  poisoned, 
Scfior." 

"  From  whom  do  you  hear  this  1  " 

"  That's  not  necessary  to  be  said.  She  was  poisoned,  and  I 
have  to  find  out  the  poisoner  and  settle  with  him " — here  he 
handled  his  machete.  "  It's  his  blood  or  mine,  your  Excellency." 

This  was  said  with  significant  emphasis,  and  such  a  look  as 
showed  the  Don  that  he  himself  was  the  object  of  suspicion. 

"  But  suppose  she  was  poisoned  by  a  woman  V 

"  Then  it's  only  a  little  harder  upon  my  conscience,  and  I  must 
use  a  smaller  knife  than  this.  But  what  woman,  your  Excel- 
lency r 

"  Nay,  I  do  not  know  by  whom  the  deed  was  done.  I  have  a 
suspicior.  only." 

"'  Your  Excellency's  suspicions  are  like  to  be  as  good  as  another 
man's  evidence.  Was  it  the  woman  Sylvia?" 

"  No,  I  think  not ;  and  as  I  suspect  only,  I  cannot  say." 

"  The  thing  must  be  found  out,  your  Excellency.     I  am  not  the 


278  VASCONSELOS. 

man  to  let  my  mother  be  baited,  like  a  dog  we  hate,  with  poison- 
ed beef.  Your  Excellency  will  find  it  necessary  to  give  me  help 
in  this  discovery.  .  You  have  not  done  right  by  me.  You  let 
this  woman  Sylvia  take  possession  of  all  m;y  mother's  property." 

"  Property  !  Why,  what  property  had  your  mother  ?  She 
was  a  slave !" 

"  Yes,  by  the  laws,  I  know ;  but  your  Excellency  knows  I 
don't  mind  laws,  and  have  my  own.  Now,  I  have  already  taken 
possession  of  all  my  mother's  property." 

"  The  devil  you  have !" 

"  Exactly  ;  I  took  possession  just  an  hour  ago.  I  tied  up  the 
old  hag  below " 

"  You  have  not  murdered  the  woman  ?" 

"  No !  Only  tied  her  up,  hand  and  tongue.  You  will  find 
her  after  I  am  gone  rather  stiff  in  her  limbs,  and  feeling  the  want 
of  her  supper,  which  I  have  eaten.  The  goods  I  have  carried  off 
already,  and  the  plunder,  were  worth  having,  I  assure  you.  There 
will  be  fine  sights  of  treasure  in  the  mountains  when  I  get  back." 

The  knight  grew  more  and  more  uneasy.  The  cool  insolence 
of  the  outlaw  was  almost  intolerable.  He  looked  about  him 
with  impatience,  and  his  eyes  turned  involuntarily  to  the  wall 
upon  which  he  had  hung  his  sword  and  dagger.  To  his  surprise, 
they  were  gone.  How  had  they  been  taken  away  ?  It  was  evi- 
dent that  Mateo  had  been  in  the  chamber  already  that  night,  or 
some  emissary  ;  and  he  found  himself  completely  in  the  power 
of  the  ruffian.  Don  Balthazar  did  not  lack  for  courage  ;  but  the 
gigantic  frame  of  his  companion  discouraged  at  a  glance  the  mo- 
mentary impulse  which  he  felt  suddenly  to  spring  upon  and 
grapple  with  him  ;  and  he  now  gazed  upon  the  person  whom  he 
feared  with  an  eye  of  vacancy.  Mateo  seemed  to  read  his 
thoughts.  He  had  followed  his  glance  to  where  the  weapons  had 
been  wont  to  hang,  and  divined  his  feelings.  The  outlaw  laughed 
securely,  with  a  bold,  honest  chuckle  of  security  and  triumph. 

"  'Twont  do,  your  Excellency ;  the  game's  in  my  hand.  I 
could  strangle  you  in  a  moment,  and  slit  your  pipe  before  you 
could  make  any  music  out  of  it.  But  that's  not  what  I  want  to 


THE   BARGAIN.  279 

do.  I'll  not  be  hard  upon  you  ;  that  is,  if  it  is  not  by  you  that 
the  old  woman  was  poisoned.  I  don't  say  'twas  you,  but  I 
have  my  thoughts.  I  know  you  deal  in  poisons  sometimes,  and 
I've  got  a  trail  to  some  of  your  secrets.  What  do  you  think 
now  of  the  Senorita,  the  Lady  Olivia  ?  She's  a  beauty,  I  know  ; 
— but  what  do  you  think  V 

The  knight  winced. 

"  I  certainly  think  with  you.     She  is  a  beauty." 

"  Ah  _!  Don  Balthazar,  what  a  pity  it  is  that  you  are  her  uncle, 
and  that  your  hair  is  so  salty  !" 

"  Hark  ye,  Mateo !"  said  the  Hidalgo,  suddenly  rising  to  his 
feet. 

"  Sit  down,"  cried  the  outlaw  imperatively,  and  putting  his 
hand  to  his  knife.  "  You  can  talk,  and  I  can  hear  just  as  well 
when  both  of  us  sit." 

"  Do  you  think  I  mean  to  harm  you  ?" 

"  Oh  !  no  !  that  you  can't.  I  could  settle  your  accounts  in  a 
moment ;  but  don't  want  the  trouble  of  it.  I  want  you  to  get 
my  pardon,  I  tell  you,  for  I  want  to  be  free  to  corne  and  go  where 
I  please.  I  am  sometimes  cut  off  from  a  good  bull-fight  and  a 
fcsta,  because  of  the  trouble  with  the  alguazils." 

"  You  want  a  pardon,  do  you  ?" 

"  Exactly  ;  and  something  more,  your  Excellency.     I  said  that 
I  liked  the  sort  of  living  at  the  old  estate,  and  I  should  like  it 
still  if  I  had  no  work  to  do.     Now,  what  I  want  of  you  is  not 
only  to  get  me  a  pardon,  but  to  make  me  overseer  for  tl 
estate  of  the  Senorita." 

"  Demonios  !     What  more  does  your  modesty  require  ?" 

"  Very  little  after  that." 

"  Put  the  wolf  to  take  care  of  the  sheep,  eh  ?" 

"  Not  quite  so  bad  as  that,  your  Excellency.  The  fact  is,  you 
can't  do  a  better  thing  for  the  interests  of  the  estate.  It's  a  good 
rule  to  set  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief;  and  the  man  that  won't  work 
is  either  too  lazy  or  too  knowing.  Now,  your  Excellency,  it's 
not  because  I'm  lazy  that  I  won't  work.  It's  because  I'm  too 
proud ;  and  I'm  too  proud  because  I'm  too  knowing.  I  can 


280  VASCONSELOS. 

make  others  work,  and  I  know  as  well  as  any  man  how  the  work 
ought  to  be  done.  Try  me,  and  you  shall  see.  If  you  had  tried 
me  before  instead  of  putting  a  blind  bull  over  me,  you'd  have 
done  better,  and  Pedro  Gutierrez  would  never  have  had  his  skull 
opened  suddenly,  to  his  great  disgrace  showing  that  he  had  no 
brains  in  the  shell.  Many  a  man  don't  do,  and  won't  do,  because 
the  right  work  is  not  given  him,  and  the  right  confidence.  Now, 
do  you  try  me,  and  you'll  see  what  I  can  do.  Make  me  your 
overseer,  get  my  pardon  made  out  with  the  royal  seal,  and  give 
my  sister  to  live  with  me,  and  you  will  find  Mateo  as  faithful  as 
a  dog.  Refuse  me,  and  you  keep  me  the  tiger  and  the  outlaw 
that  you  have  made  me." 

Rapid  were  the  thoughts  which  coursed  through  the  knight's 
brain.  The  philosophy  of  the  outlaw  began  to  strike  him  favor- 
ably. He  reflected — "  This  fellow  can  be  bought.  He  will  do 
any  service  in  return  for  these  things.  He  will  strike  my  foe, 
as  coolly  as  butcher  smites  ox ;  he  will  obey  my  finger  with- 
out questioning.  I  leave  for  Florida.  Olivia  retires  to  the  ha- 
cienda. There,  he  is  supreme  in  my  absence.  Ah !  well !  I 
see !" 

Then  aloud : 

"'Pon  my  soul,  Mateo,  you  are  moderate  in  your  wishes. 
But  suppose  I  comply  with  them  ]" 

"  It  will  be  wise !" 

"  Perhaps  so  !  But  are  you  prepared  to  show  your  devotion 
to  him  who  will  do  for  you  all  this  ?" 

"Am  I  prepared  to  make  a  profitable  bargain  ?" 

"  Suppose  there  be  a  hateful  serpent  in  my  path  ?" 

"  I  will  put  my  heel  upon  his  head  !" 

"  Suppose  there  be  a  wolf  in  my  close  1n 

"  I  will  put  my  knife  across  his  throat !" 

"  A  mad  bull,  fierce  as  El  Moro,  and  as  strong  ?" 

"  Here  is  the  very  machete  that  slew  El  Moro !" 

"  It  shall  be  done  !  Fill  yourself  a  cup  of  wine,  and  we  will 
speak  farther  of  this  matter.  We  understand  each  other.  It  is 
a  bargain  between  us !" 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

"  Tliis  day  is  ominous, 
Therefore,  come  back." 

TROILUS  AND  CRKRHIDA. 

IT  will  notbe  difficult  to  conjecture  what  were  the  terms  which  Don 
Balthazar  was  prepared  to  make  with  the  outlaw,  or  the  character 
of  the  services  which  the  latter  was  to  render,  by  which  to  se- 
cure the  pardon  which  he  desired  and  the  office  which  he  claimed. 
The  knight  saw,  in  the  appearance  of  Mateo,  the  means  by  which 
to  relieve  himself  from  all  danger  at  the  hands  of  Philip  de  Vas- 
conselos.  He  was  one  of  those  persons  who  readily  adapt  the 
tool  to  their  uses  which  offers  itself  most  readily  to  their  hands ; 
and  saw,  at  a  glance,  in  what  way  the  outlaw  could  promote  his 
purposes.  We  are  not  now  to  be  told  that  he  was  a  man  of  few 
scruples  when  he  was  eager  for  his  objects ;  his  fears  and  virtues 
equally  failing  to  suggest  considerations  of  doubt  to  a  very  ductile 
conscience.  Strange  to  say,  the  conditions  which  he  demanded 
of  the  outlaw,  were  not  so  readily  accepted  by  this  person. 
Mateo  was  not  without  his  own  rude  virtues.  He  had  been  im- 
pressed with  the  knightly  graces  and  valor  of  Vasconselos — had 
seen  with  delight  his  wonderful  skill  in  the  tournament,  and  had 
hailed  his  successes  as  if  he  shared  in  them.  Besides,  he  was 
aware  of  the  isolation  of  the  Portuguese  cavalier,  and  well  knew 
the  reluctance  with  which  the  Spaniards  had  acknowledged  his  su- 
periority. Mateo  had  too  little  of  the  Spanish  blood  in  him  to 
feel  with  them,  and  adversely  to  one  whose  isolation  so  much  re- 
minded him  of  his  own  ;  and  he  gave  him  his  sympathies  on  this 
account,  as  well  as  because  of  his  valiant  bearing.  But  he  was 
a  person  in  a  situation  which  did  not  suffer  him  to  withstand  the 
tempter ;  and,  though  slowly  and  reluctantly,  he,  at  length,  yield- 

(281) 


282  VASCONSELOS. 

ed  to  the  temptation.  He  was  bought  by  the  promise  of  par- 
don,  and  the  hope  of  reward  ;  and  consented  to  become  the  as- 
sassin of  the  knight  of  Portugal.  That  night  he  confided  the 
whole  secret  to  his  sister,  Juana,  expecting  her  to  be  gratified 
with  an  arrangement  which  promised  him  security  and  trust,  and 
freedom  to  herself.  But  he  was  confounded  to  find  that  she  saw 
the  affair  in  a  very  different  aspect. 

"Don't  you  believe  Don  Balthazar,  my  brother!"  said  the 
girl.  "He  has  some  snare  for  your  feet.  It  was  because  you 
had  him  in  your  power  that  he  made  this  bargain  with  you.  He 
keeps  terms  with  no  one ;  and  I  am  only  afraid  that  he  throws 
dust  in  your  eyes,  while  he  puts  the  alguazils  upon  your  foot- 
steps !  Besides,  you  don't  know  what  a  noble  gentleman  this 
knight  of  Portugal  is."  , 

"Don't  I,  then!  Haven't  I  seen  him  with  lance  and  sword; 
on  horse  and  foot ;  and  don't  I  know  how  these  Spaniards  hate  and 
fear  him  1  Jesu  !  It  did  my  heart  good  to  see  how  he  carried  him 
self; — how  he  managed  the  horse  and  lance,  and  made  the  swo: 
fly,  here  and  there,  at  every  point  in  the  heavens,  wherever  the 
enemy  attacked.  Oh  !  but  I  do  know  him,  and  I  was  very  loth 
to  promise  to  lift  knife  against  his  breast !" 

"  And  why  did  you  do  it  ?" 

"  Demonios  !  What  was  I  to  do  ?  Here  was  my  own  pardon 
offered  me,  your  freedom,  and  the  whole  charge  of  the  hacienda." 

"  You  will  get  none  of  these  !  Don  Balthazar  means  only  to 
betray  thee.  He  wishes,  no  doubt,  to  get  this  knight  of  Por- 
tugal out  of  his  way;  for  there  are  precious  reasons,  my  brother, 
why  he  should  fear  the  presence  of  the  Portuguese.  Ah  !  if  thou 
knew'st !  But  when  thou  hast  done  the  service,  then  will  he  be 
the  first  to  denounce  thee.  He  is  a  bitter  traitor.  His  whole 
life  is  a  treachery.  His  heart  is  full  of  serpents.  He  has  lied 
to  thee  with  sweetness,  and  thou  hast  tasted  of  the  sweetness 
till  thou  dost  not  feel  the  poison  !  He  is  a  poisoner !  Ah  !  if 
thou  knew'st !  Know  I  not  that  he  keeps  many  poisons  in  his 
closet  7  Did  I  not  tell  thee  that  our  mother  died  by  poison  ? 
Whence  did  it  come  ?" 


JUANA'S  SUSPICIONS.  283 

"  He  says  a  woman  poisoned  her." 

"  A  woman  !  He  might  just  as  well  have  said  that  I  did  it, 
or  the  Lady  Olivia.  There  was  none  other  to  do  it;  for  Sylvia 
came  hither  only  after  our  mother  was  dead.  No!  no!  Mateo, 
he  was  the  poisoner,  be  sure ;  and  thou  hast  sold  thyself  to  do 
this  bad  man's  bad  work,  making  the  good  man  thy  victim,  only 
to  feed  on  his  poison  thyself,  when  thou  little  dream'st  of  such 
danger !" 

"  Hush  up,  child  !  He  dare  not  deceive  me !  Let  him  try  it ! 
Let  me  but  find  him  at  his  treachery,  and  I  will  slit  his  throat 
with  a  whistle." 

"  Ah  !  if  he  be  not  too  quick  for  thee.  I  nothing  doubt  that 
he  will  have  the  alguazils  upon  thy  steps  before  another  day  is 
over." 

"  I  shall  keep  mine  eyes  about  me,  girl ;  and,  hark  thee,  I  shall 
hide  here  in  these  thickets,  and  thou  shalt  feed  me  from  the 
house.  They  will  never  dream  of  looking  for  me  here.  I  know 
the  hours  when  to  steal  forth,  but  hither  will  I  come  to  sleep. 
Dost  thou  hear  ?" 

"  Yes !  It  is  best,  perhaps.  The  plan  is  a  good  one.  But 
thou  wilt  not  kill  this  knight  of  Portugal  to  pleasure  this  bad 
man]" 

"  It  must  be  done !  I  will  do  as  I  have  said ;  and  if  Don  Bal- 
thazar, then,  does  not  as  he  hath  sworn  to  me,  I  will  cut  out  his 
lying  tongue,  and  he  shall  see  me  eat  it  ere  he  dies !" 

We  need  not  farther  pursue  the  conference,  which  ended  in  an 
arrangement  by  which  the  outlaw,  unknown  to  any  but  Juana, 
was  to  find  his  nightly  refuge,  in  the  groves  and  harboring  places 
belonging  to  the  grounds  of  the  knight's  own  dwelling,  and  be 
supplied  with  food  at  her  hands.  He  was  also  to  time  carefully 
his  moments  of  sallying  forth ;  and  it  was  deemed  only  a  proper 
precaution  that  Don  Balthazar  was  not  to  know  where  he  har- 
bored, or  be  permitted  any  knowledge  of  his  movements ;  at  all 
events,  until  it  was  certain  that  Juana' s  suspicions  were  ground- 
less. 

This  conference  took  place  outside  of  the  house,  and  among 


284  VASCONSELOS. 

the  thick  groves  by  which  it  was  environed.  While  it  was  in 
progress,  Don  Balthazar  contrived  to  find  his  way  into  the  do- 
main of  Sylvia,  and  free  her  from  her  unpleasant  bandagings. 
He  affected  great  surprise  at  her  condition,  and  gave"  her  no  clues 
to  the  secret  of  it.  Nor,  while  he  was  present,  did  she  conjec- 
ture who  was  the  bold  ruffian  by  whom  she  had  been  plundered. 
But  scarcely  had  the  knight  retired,  when  she  received  a  gleam 
of  intelligence  from  a  simple  discovery  enough.  The  bandage 
about  her  eyes  was  a  scarf  which  she  had  often  seen  in  the  pos- 
session of  Juana — that,  or  one  very  much  like  it.  Now,  where 
one  is  disposed  to  dislike,  or  suspect,  the  proofs  rapidly  accumu- 
late. This  discovery-,  though  by  no  means  conclusive — since  the 
ruffian  might  very  well  have  caught  up,  and  made  use  of,  the  scarf 
of  the  innocent  serving-maid — yet  set  the  memories  and  wits  of 
old  Sylvia  busy.  She  saw  the  mystery  at  a  glance.  Was  not 
Mateo  the  brother  of  Juana ; — was  not  Mateo  an  outlaw ; — and 
had  she  not  heard  that  Mateo  had  been  seen  in  the  bull-fight, 
and  that  her  excellent  master — ever  to  be  honored — had  actually 
set  certain  alguazils  upon  his  footsteps  ?  Nay,  did  not  Don  Bal- 
thazar, only  two  nights  before,  give  her  warning  to  keep  a  close 
eye  upon  Juana,  for  that  the  outlaw,  her  brother,  was  at  hand  ? 
And,  O,  shame  to  her  prudence,  had  she  not  been  too  careless 
of  this  counsel ;  and  was  it  not  for  this  Very  incautiousness  that 
she  had  fallen  a  victim  to  the  robber !  Now  it  was  that  she 
remembered  the  frequent  stealthy  absences  of  the  girl  at  night — 
her  window  open — her  chamber  empty — and  a  hundred  other 
matters ;  which,  in  her  present  keen  suspicions,  were  proofs  like 
holy  writ — confirmations  strong — not  to  be  gainsayed  in  any 
court  of  justice. 

Sylvia  was  resolved  in  her  suspicions.  They  were  clear 
enough  as  proofs.  "  And  now,"  mused  the  sagacious  old  woman, 
"  how  to  recover  my  property — how  to  enjoy  my  revenges !  I 
see  through  the  whole  affair.  Juana  harbors  her  brother  here ! 
Truly,  a  most  excellent  notion,  that  of  making  the  house  of  the 
most  noble  knight,  Don  Balthazar,  the  place  of  refuge  for  the 


SYLVIA'S  PLANS.  285 

very  outlaw  whom  he  has  sent  the  alguazils  to  find  !  But  I  will 
be  too  much  for  them  both — they  shall  see  !  they  shall  see !" 

Her  plans  were  soon  devised,  and  the  very  next  morning, 
bright  and  early,  she  sallied  forth  on  some  professedly  innocent 
pretences.  We  need  not  follow  her  footsteps,  but  content  our- 
selves with  reporting,  in  brief,  the  object  of  her  expedition.  It 
was  to  seek  out  the  alguazils — the  chief  of  them,  rather — and  be- 
stow upon  him  the  benefit  of  her  discovery.  She  made  an  effort 
to  see  Don  Balthazar,  and  to  enlighten  him  on  the  subject ;  but, 
to  her  surprise,  he  seemed  to  have  left  the  hacienda  after  reliev- 
ing her  of  her  bonds.  He  did  not  again,  that  night,  occupy  his 
own  chamber  ;  possibly,  because  of  its  assumed  insecurity  ;  and 
during  the  day  following,  he  did  not  re-appear.  He  was  busy 
in  the  city. 

Meanwhile,  what  of  Olivia — the  poor  victim,  torn  by  love  on 
the  one  hand,  by  a  bitter  consciousness  of  wrong  and  shame  on 
the  other ;  by  passions  which  she  could  not  control,  by  fears 
which  she  dared  not  name ;  by  vague,  vain  hopes,  which  fluc- 
tuated in  a  sort  of  shadowy  existence  in  her  soul,  keeping  her 
restless,  dreaming  of  possibilities,  and  the  most  mocking  fancies, 
which  left  her,  half  the  time,  in  the  greatest  uncertainty  of  reason ! 
Her  health  seemed  to  improve,  however,  and,  though  pale  and 
sad  as  ever,  there  were  symptoms  of  better  spirits  and  a  greater 
cheerfulness.  Love  itself  was  her  only  stimulant,  while  it  was 
also  one  of  her  most  disturbing  griefs.  The  image  of  Philip  de 
Vasconselos  was  ever  present  to  her  imagination,  coming  always 
clothed  with  promise.  The  more  she  reflected  upon  the  proba- 
bility of  his  addressing  her,  the  more  she  began  to  doubt  of  her 
own  strength  to  say  him  nay.  But,  even  then,  her  conscience 
smote  her  with  the  criminality  of  consent ;  and  she  would  thus 
sink  back  into  hopelessness  and  sorrow.  But  why  was  it  that 
he  came  not  ?  To  this  inquiry,  which  again  suggested  a  painful 
doubt  of  her  conquest — painful  still,  though  she  had  resolved  to 
reject  his  suit — her  lively  friend,  Leonora  de  Tobar,  brought  a 
sufficiently  explanatory  answer.  He  was  close  in  attendance 
upon,  and  anxious  for  the  safety  of,  his  sick  brother.  Now,  how 


286  VASCONSELOS. 

ever,  that  Andres  was  out  of  danger,  Olivia  might  look  to  see 
him  soon.  She  spent  that  morning  with  the  unhappy  damsel, 
and  her  lively  prattle  alternately  cheered  and  depressed  her. 
When  she  was  gone,  Olivia  made  her  toilet  with  more  than 
usual  care.  Why.?  The  words  of  Leonora  assured  her  that  she 
might  surely  look  for  Don  Philip's  coming  soon — that  very  day, 
perhaps  ;  and  it  was  with  an  interest  which  the  poor  girl  dared 
not  acknowledge  to  herself,  that  she  arrayed  her  charms  to  the 
best  possible  advantage ;  and  gazed  with  a  sorrowful  sort  of  sat- 
isfaction into  the  mirror  which  reflected  them  to  her  eyes.  Then 
she  sighed,  with  the  sudden  rush  of  her  fancies  from  the  seat  of 
conscience,  rebuked  by  the  stern  judgment  of  that  sacred  mon- 
itor. 

"  Wherefore,"  she  murmured  to  herself ;  "  wherefore  this 
beauty — this  solicitude  to  appear  beautiful  in  his  eyes  ?  Alas  ! 
my  soul,  I  cannot  do  him  this  great  dishonor.  I  can  never 
doom  his  noble  heart  to  such  infamy  as  embrace  of  me  will 
bring  !" 

She  sank  away  from  the  mirror — she  threw  herself  upon  her 
couch,  and  buried  her  face  within  her  hands.  The  next  moment 
the  girl,  Juana,  was  gazing  upon  her  with  a  look  of  sympathizing 
interest,  which  touched  her  soul.  The  girl  looked  into  the  cham- 
ber only  to  disappear. 

"  Madre  de  Dios!"  Olivia  murmured  to  herself:  "Can  it  be 
that  she  knows — that  she  suspects  f ' 

And  with  the  doubt,  the  apprehension  grew  to  terror. 

"  I  am  at  the  mercy,  O  !  Heavens,  of  the  meanest  slave  !" 

The  fear  was  followed  by  an  agonizing  burst  of  grief!  The 
day  was  one  of  perpetual  doubts  and  apprehensions.  But  it 
passed  away  without  events.  Vasconselos  did  not  appear,  as 
Leonora  had  conjectured,  and  as  Olivia  had  hoped — and  feared ! 
Her  doubts  and  fears  grew  strengthened.  If  her  secret  was  in 
the  possession  of  the  slave,  Juana,  it  was  a  secret  no  longer ! 
That  it  should  have  reached  the  ears  of  Philip,  was  her  new- 
terror  !  It  prostrated  her  for  awhile  !  Half  the  night  was  passed 
in  tears  and  terrors,  which  were  so  many  agonies.  She  could 


THE  OUTLAW'S  HIDING  PLACE.  287 

bear  his  loss — she  could  be  content  to  give  him  up  forever — but 
that  he  should  know  her  shame  ;  that  his  noble  soul  should  be- 
come conscious  of  the  deadly  stain  upon  hers — that  she  could 
never  bear,  and  live !  She  prayed  for  death.  In  her  secret 
thought  arose  a  vague  feeling,  which  brought,  and  commended 
to  her,  the  fatal  poison,  with  which,  unwittingly,  her  hand  had 
bestowed  death  upon  Anita.  Were  there  not  other  drops  of 
silence,  and  sleep,  and  safety  in  that  fatal  phial  ?  Where  was  it  1 
She  would  look  for  it !  She  would  find  it,  and  at  the  worst,  she 
would  sleep;  and  all  these  terrible  agonies  of  thought  would 
have  an  end !  In  the  deep  stillness  of  the  midnight  hour,  the 
unhappy  damsel  resolved  on  suicide.  But  there  were  other 
drops  of  bitterness  in  her  cup  of  misery,  which  she  was  yet  to 
drink  to  the  dregs.  Let  us  not  anticipate,  but  follow  the  fortunes 
of  other  persons  of  our  drama. 

Sylvia  had  made  her  way  to  the  alguazils,  and  had  put  them 
in  possession  of  all  the  clues  which  she  had  procured,  leading  to 
the  pathways  and  hiding-places  of  the  outlaw,  Mateo.  Once 
roused  to  suspicion,  she  had  found  numerous  reasons  for  con- 
firming her  in  her  conjectures.  She  noted  all  the  outgoings  of 
Juana.  She  watched  her  with  secrecy,  and  comparative  success  ; 
and  though  she  did  not  see  Mateo,  she  yet  arrived  at  a  very 
shrewd  notion  of  the  thickets  in  which  he  might  be  found.  The 
hacienda  which  Don  Balthazar  and  his  niece  occupied,  though 
smaller  than  the  estate  which  he  cultivated  for  her,  was  yet  one 
of  considerable  range  in  grove  and  forest.  It  had  numerous  dim 
avenues  of  shade  and  silence.  There  were  solitary  walks  which 
no  one  frequented.  There  were  hollows  among  the  wooded  hills 
which  might  have  harbored  a  hermit.  It  seems  that  Mateo 
knew  the  place.  He  possessed  himself  of  its  various  haunts  ; 
and,  but  for  the  too  eager  desire  of  Juana  to  seek  him  out,  and 
be  with  him  when  there  was  no  necessity  for  it,  the  old  woman 
would  probably  never  have  guessed  his  propinquity.  Had  the 
girl  been  content  to  seek  him  only  at  night,  and  to  carry  him 
food  but  once  in  the  twenty-four  hours,  and  then  under  cover  of 
the  darkness,  he  had  been  safe.  But  the  girl  loved  her  brother, 


288  VASCONSELOS. 

and  was  very  proud  of  his  prowess.  Besides,  after  the  death  of 
Anita,  she  needed  the  solace  of  association  with  the  only  kinsman 
left  her.  She  gratified  this  desire,  and  sought  to  gratify  him, 
twenty  times  a  day,  perhaps  ;  stealing  forth  with  fruits  and  deli- 
cacies, with  nice  morsels  from  the  kitchen,  and  with  an  occasional 
wine-flask,  or  the  remains  of  one,  whenever  she  could  appropri- 
ate it  with  impunity.  But  the  eye  of  Sylvia  was  upon  her  ;  and 
she  noted  the  direction  taken  by  the  footsteps  of  the  girl.  It  was 
surprising  with  what  correctness  she  conjectured  the  harboring 
places  of  the  fugitive,  from  these  observations,  and  her  own 
knowledge  of  the  grounds.  She  put  all  her  clues  into  the  keep- 
ing of  the  alguazils.  The  result  was,  that  before  sunset,  some 
half  dozen  of  them  were  quietly  skirting  the  hacienda,  divided 
into  two  parties,  and  gradually  contracting  their  circuits  about 
the  suspected  place  of  refuge. 

Mateo,  meanwhile,  never  dreamed  of  danger  from  this  source. 
It  is  true  that  Juana  had  her  doubts  of  the  good  faith  of  Don 
Balthazar,  and  labored  to  inspire  him  with  similar  doubts.  In 
some  degree  she  succeeded,  so  as  in  fact  to  make  him  circum- 
spect as  possible.  But  the  great  gain  of  security,  of  freedom, 
and  high  trust,  which  the  Hidalgo  had  promised,  were  considera- 
tions quite  too  grateful  and  tempting  not  to  prevail  in  the  argu- 
ment addressed  to  the  confidence  of  the  outlaw ;  who,  besides, 
seemed  to  understand  very  well  why  the  uncle  of  Olivia  should 
desire  to  get  Don  Philip  de  Vasconselos  removed  from  the  path. 
It  was  not  with  any  satisfaction  that  Mateo  contemplated  the 
duty  assigned  him.  He  would  rather  have  killed  any  two  other 
men  in  Havana  than  this  one  Portuguese.  But,  as  he  said, 
"  What  am  I  to  do  7  I  can't  be  a  fugitive  always,  flying  for  safe- 
ty ;  and  to  be  my  own  master  is  a  great  deal  to  one  who  don't 
like  to  work  ;  and  to  get  into  a  snug  office,  where  I  can  compel 
others  to  do  the  thing  which  I  don't  like  to  do  myself,  is  certainly 
very  pleasant !  Besides,  if  I  don't  take  the  Portuguese  in  hand, 
Don  Balthazar  will  only  employ  somebody  else — some  bungler, 
who  will  not  do  it  half  so  well ;  who  will  botch  the  business ; 
who  will  give  the  good  knight  unnecessary  pain,  and  perhaps 


PHILIP'S  VISIT.  289 

keep  him  lingering.  Now  /  will  dispatch  him  at  a  blow.  It  is 
but  a  stroke  over  the  shoulders,  and  he  is  caught  up  by  the 
angels  ;  for  he  is  a  good  young  man,  and  in  a  very  proper  state 
to  die  !  It  must  be  done — and  shall  be  !  But  let  Don  Balthazar 
beware  how  he  plays  me  false.  If  I  have  one  death  for  Don 
Philip,  whom  I  rather  love,  I  have  a  dozen  deaths  for  him  whom 
I  hate ;  and  he  shall  taste  them  all  if  he  tries  to  make  a  fool  of 


me 


t  "• 


In  this  state  of  mind  was  he  musing,  while  the  alguazils  were 
skirting  his  hiding-place  ;  which  happened,  at  this  moment,  to  be 
on  the  verge  of  the  hacienda,  the  point  nearest  the  city.  Here 
the  thicket  was  most  dense  ;  without  pathways  or  avenues,  ex- 
cept such  as  nature  had  left  in  a  very  tangled  piece  of  forest, 
portions  of  which  were  clothed  in  a  mass  of  brush  and  vine  al- 
most too  close  for  the  progress  of  a  wild-cat  or  fox,  but  through 
which  Mateo  fancied  he  could  burrow  with  tolerable  ease,  assisted 
by  a  few  strokes  of  his  machete.  The  common  pathway  from 
the  city  to  the  hacienda  ran  along  the  margin  of  this  thicket,  and 
was  skirted  by  some  very  lofty  treea 

It  happened  that  Philip  de  Vasconselos  had  taken  this  very 
evening  to  visit  the  damsel  whom  his  admiring  fancies  had  chosen 
as  the  Queen  of  the  tournament.  The  duty  would  have  been 
done  before,  but  for  her  indisposition,  the  reports  of  which, 
abroad,  had  been  very  contradictory.  Philip,  though  anxious, 
and  now  very  hopeful,  was  too  generous,  whatever  his  anxiety, 
to  appear  before  her  while  she  suffered.  He  had  learned  that 
day,  however,  from  Nuno  de  Tobar,  that  she  was  at  length  well 
enough  to  receive  visitors ;  and  he  had  chosen  the  most  delicious 
of  the  hours  of  the  day,  in  that  clime  and  season,  to  approach  her 
with  his  congratulations,  his  thanks,  and  possibly  with  the  assu- 
rances of  a  sympathy,  far  beyond  any  thing  implied  by  these,  in 
his  love  and  admiration !  The  purpose,  not  wholly  decided 
on — for  the  truly  chivalrous  are  always  timid  in  an  affair  of  the 
affections — of  offering  her  his  hand,  and  imploring  hers,  yet  fluc- 
tuated as  a  restless  impulse  in  his  bosom.  It  would  be  idle  .to 
say  that  he  did  not  hope,  and  hope  strongly,  for  success.  Even 
13 


290  VASCONSELOS. 

the  modesty  of  his  character  could  not  be  deceived  on  a  subject 
on  which  the  common  voice  of  society  allowed  no  doubts,  and  he 
was  resolved  to  bring  his  own  doubts,  if  any,  to  a  close,  as  soon 
as  possible,  and  terminate  a  condition  of  suspense  which  had 
many  vexations.  But,  whether  he  should  address  Olivia  that 
evening  or  not,  was  to  depend  upon  his  reception,  her  health,  and 
other  circumstances  which  need  not  be  mentioned.  Enough, 
that  he  is  at  last  on  his  way  to  her  hacienda. 

He  had  just  entered  upon  the  estate,  and,  with  slow  step,  and 
musing  spirit,  was  penetrating  the  avenue  of  great  trees  which 
led  to  the  dwelling,  when  he  was  startled  from  a  pleasant  revery, 
by  a  sudden  outcry  from  the  depths  of  the  thicket  on  his  right. 
There  were  clamors,  as  of  threatened  violence ;  the  shouts  of  man 
to  man  ;  a  rushing  and  crackling  among  the  shrubs  and  branches 
of  the  wood,  followed  by  a  fierce,  wild,  savage  oath  or  two, 
which  came  very  distinctly  to  his  ears,  and  which  declared  for 
angry  passions  ready  to  do  mischief.  The  sun  had  set.  The  in- 
terval of  twilight  is  brief  in  that  region.  A  sudden  glory  suffuses 
the  sky,  as  the  great  eye  of  day  is  about  to  close ;  the  glory 
disappears,  a  faint  misty  light  lingers  in  the  sky,  which  gradually 
deepens  into  dusk.  Such  was  the  hour.  The  dusk  was  nearly 
darkness  in  the  wood  ;  and,  for  a  moment,  Don  Philip  could 
see  nothing,  though  he  impulsively  took  a  few  steps  into  the 
thicket  in  order  to  trace  the  secret  of  the  outcry.  He  was  not 
left  long  in  doubt.  Suddenly,  a  gigantic  figure,  that  seemed  to  rise 
from  the  earth  where  he  had  fallen,  bounded  close  beside  him. 
He  was  followed  by  three  others,  who  now  rushed  out  of  the 
wood  and  made  after  the  fugitive,  armed  with  swords  and  knives. 
They  were  close  upon  his  heels,  and  he  turned  about  to  confront 
them.  Three  upon  one !  The  struggle  was  too  unequal.  The 
chivalry  of  Don  Philip  was  aroused  as  he  beheld.  With  the  natu- 
ral impulse  of  a  brave  man,  sympathizing  with  the  weak,  he 
drew  his  sword,  and  threw  himself  in  the  way  of  the  pursuers ; 
the  outlaw,  for  it  was  he,  being  some  twenty  steps  in  advance. 

"  Stand  aside  !"  cried  one  of  the  alguazils,  who  seemed  to  be 
the  leader  : — "  we  are  officers  of  justice." 


THE   PURSUIT.  291 

"  I  know  not  that !"  was  the  answer.  "  Where  is  your  war- 
rant ?  Let  me  see  your  authority." 

"  No  time  for  that  now !  We  are  under  the  authority  of  Don 
Balthazar  de  Alvaro,  and  these  are  his  grounds.  We  are  to  ar- 
rest yonder  outlaw." 

"  Ha !  Ha  !  Ha !"  was  the  fierce  chuckle  of  the  outlaw,  who, 
taking  advantage  of  the  diversion  in  his  favor,  had  sheltered 
himself  among  the  trees,  but  who  did  not  seem  disposed  to 
fly  much  farther.  He  had  obtained  a  momentary  respite,  which, 
probably,  was  all  that  was  now  necessary  to  his  safety. 

"  Ha !  Ha !  Ha !  Send  Don  Balthazar  himself  to  me,  and 
we  shall  see  who  is  the  outlaw  !" 

Don  Philip  heard  the  words  distinctly. 

"  Who  is  the  man  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Mateo,  the  outlaw,  the  fugitive,  the  murderer.  Beware, 
Senor,  how  you  arrest  the  officers  of  justice,  and  help  the  escape 
of  the  criminal !  I  know  you,  Don  Philip  de  Vasconselos  ;  you 
will  have  to  answer  for  it,  if  you  delay  us." 

"  If  you  know  me,  you  know  that  I  cannot  stand  by  and  see 
three  men  opposed  to  one.  Show  me  your  authority  for  taking 
this  man,  before  you  pass  me.  The  penalty  be  upon  my  head  !" 

It  is  probable  that  the  alguazils  would  have  attempted  to 
beat  the  knight  out  of  their  path,  but  knighthood  had  its  prestige, 
and  they  well  remembered  the  potent  weapon  of  the  Portuguese. 
The  officer  remonstrated. 

"  You  cannot  read  the  paper,"  he  said,  "  by  this  light.  But  it 
is  here.  Let  us  pass,  or  there  will  be  trouble." 

"  Let  them  pass,  Senor,"  cried  the  fugitive.  "  They  will  have 
fleeter  legs  than  Spanish  alguazils  usually  carry,  if  they  hope  to 
overtake  Mateo  ;  and  better  skill  and  courage  than  usual,  if  they 
conquer  when  they  overtake !  Come  on,  rascals,  that  I  may 
carry  you  with  me  to  the  devil." 

The  confidence  with  which  the  outlaw  spoke  determined  Philip 
to  oppose  the  officers  no  farther.  He  probably  saw  that  it 
would  be  prudent  only  to  forbear  a  quarrel  with  the  public 
authorities,  knowing,  as  he  did,  how  doubtful  were  his  own  re- 


292         „  YASCONSELOS. 

lations  with  the  Adelantado,  and  how  small  his  popularity  with 
the  Spaniards  at  large. 

"  You  are  right,"  said  he  to  the  officers ;  "  I  have  nothing  to 
do  with  this  business  !"  and  he  turned  aside,  and  put  up  his 
weapon.  The  alguazils  started  again  in  pursuit.  A  shrill  whis- 
tle sounded  from  the  opposite  quarter.  It  was  the  signal  of  the 
other  party  in  search  of  the  fugitive.  The  outlaw  was  between 
two  squads  of  enemies,  and  he  bounded  away  to  the  covert,  both 
parties  after  him.  For  several  minutes,  Don  Philip  listened  to 
their  outcries,  as  they  severally  crashed  their  way  into  the 
thickets.  He  half  regretted  that  he  had  not  still  farther  delayed 
the  chase  after  the  bold  outlaw.  In  a  little  while  the  sounds 
ceased.  The  alguazils  were  at  fault,  bewildered  in  the  wood  j 
and  the  fugitive  laughed  at  them  securely  hi  its  deep  recesses. 
But,  of  this  escape,  Philip  knew  not  at  the  moment.  He  re- 
sumed his  progress  towards  the  dwelling,  his  mood  having  be- 
come somewhat  sterner  by  the  momentary  excitement.  Hardly 
had  he  advanced  a  dozen  steps,  however,  when  he  encountered 
the  girl,  Juana,  wringing  her  hands,  and  showing  many  signs  of 
terror. 

"Who  is  this?" 

"  Oh !  Seiior  Don  Philip,  how  I  thank  you !  You  have  saved 
my  poor  brother.  They  will  give  him  to  the  garote  vil,  if  they 
take  him ;  and  it  is  I  who  have  betrayed  him." 

"  You  !  Are  you  not  the  girl,  Juana,  belonging  to  Don  Baltha- 
zar de  Alvaro  ?" 

"  Oh !  not  to  him,  but  to  the  poor  young  lady,  the  Senorita 
Olivia?" 

"  And  he  is  your  brother  1  And  why  do  they  pursue  him  ? 
What  has  he  done  ?" 

"  Oh  !  nothing  in  the  world,  Senor ;  nothing  in  the  world ;  only 
he  is  too  good  to  do  work  at  the  hacienda.  They  charge  him  with 
murder  and  other  things.  But  it  is  not  true.  He  is  the  best  per- 
son in  the  world,  Senor,  and  the  best  brother,  and  he  killed  the 
great  bull,  El  Moro ;  and  would  be  as  good  a  Christian  as  Father 
Paul  himself,  if  they'd  only  let  him  have  his  own  way." 


THE  VISIT  POSTPONED.  293 

The  knight  smiled  at  the  moderate  conditions  which  were  re- 
quired for  Mateo's  Christianity. 

"  Certainly,  Juana,  they  are  very  unreasonable  with  your  bro- 
ther." 

"  Oh  !  I  knew  you'd  think  so,  Seiior.  He  is  only  too  good  for 
the  like  of  them.  He  is  the  best  brother  in  all  Cuba." 

"  Well,  you  are  a  good  girl  for  believing  thus  of  your  brother. 
— But  how  is  your  lady — how  is  the  Senorita  de  Alvaro  1  I  was 
just  going  to  visit  her." 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  girl  quickly — "  But  you  can't  see  her  this  even- 
ing. She  is  not  well,  and  she  bade  me  leave  her,  and  that's  the 
reason  that  you  see  me  here.  I  stole  off,  as  the  Senorita  retired 
• — only  to  see  and  talk  with  Mateo,  and  the  alguazils — may  the 
Devils  burn  them  in  pitch  and  sulphur ! — they  followed  after  me, 
and  I  led  them  to  the  very  place  where  he  was  sleeping.  Oh !  they 
had  so  nearly  caught  him;  and  if  they  had,  and  they  had  put  him 
to  the  garote  vil,  I  would  have  drowned  myself  in  the  sea,  for- 
ever and  forever !" 

The  visit  of  Philip  de  Vasconselos  was  arrested  by  the  intelli- 
gence which  Juana  gave  him  of  her  lady;  but  the  girl  deceived 
him.  Olivia  had  not  retired  ;  and  we  may  add,  that  she  really 
expected  the  cavalier.  She  had  been  taught  to  look  for  him  by 
the  garrulous  assurances  of  Leonora  de  Tobar,  who  had  gathered 
from  her  husband's  report  that  Don  Philip  would  surely  come 
that  night.  And,  but  for  this  interruption,  how  might  the  events 
of  this  truthful  history  have  been  altered ! — whether  for  good  or 
evil  we  do  not  pretend  to  say.  But  altered  they  must  have 
been.  Don  Philip  might  have  made  the  visit  in  vain  ;  he  might 
have  been  denied  ;  probably  would  have  been  ;  though  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  say.  The  task  of  denial  would  have  been  a  hard  one  to 
the  poor  damsel,  loving  him  as  she  did  ;  and  reluctant  as  she  was 
to  say  him  nay — to  say  nay  to  the  pleadings  of  her  own  passion, 
no  less  than  his.  She  had  dressed  herself  for  Philip — she  had 
been  solicitous  of  charms  which,  perhaps,  needed  little  help  from 
art  or  ornament  for  conquest.  Yet  she  had  adorned  herself  richly 
•with  her  jewels !  Would  she  have  had  the  firmness — the  virtue 


294  VASCONSELOS. 

— to  refuse  the  prayer  of  one  whom  she  was  yet  so  anxious  to 
please  1  It  is  probable  that  Don  Balthazar  knew  her  weaknesses 
better  than  she  did  herself.  At  all  events,  the  lie  of  the  girl, 
Juana,  told  with  no  malignant  purpose,  but  simply  to  prevent  the 
discovery  of  her  unlicensed  absence  by  her  mistress,  changed, 
very  completely,  the  whole  current  of  our  history — changed  the 
fortunes  of  Don  Philip,  no  less  than  those  of  the  lady  of  his 
love.  Not  that  he  did  not  again  seek  her — but  this  must  be  a 
matter  for  future  revelation.  Philip  de  Vasconselos  turned  away 
from  Juana,  and  from  the  hacienda,  and  with  a  parting  word  of 
kindness  to  the  girl,  slowly  took  his  route  back  to  his  lonely 
lodgings. 

"  Praise  the  Holy  Virgin  that  he  is  gone !  and  the  Saints  be  all 
praised  because  he  came.  If  he  had  not  come  between  these 
cursed  alguazils,  they  would  have  been,  all  of  them,  upon  poor 
Mateo.  They  can  hardly  take  him  now,  it  is  so  dark,  and  he 
knows  the  thickets  so  well.  He  will  escape.  He  is  safe.  I 
don't  hear  them  now.  Oh  !  I  am  so  glad  that  the  good  knight  of 
Portugal  came !  And  "Mateo  wanted  to  kill  him,  and  all  to 
please  that  great  cayman,  my  master.  But.  he  shan't  touch  him 
now.  If  he's  to  kill  anybody,  I  know  who  it  shall  be.  It  shan't 
be  the  good  Don  Philip,  I  know.  He  is  a  good  knight.  I  love 
him.  And  my  lady  loves  him  too,  better  than  all  things  in  this 
world.  But  if  he  knew !  If  he  only  knew  what  I  know  !  But 
he  shall  never  know  for  me  !  And  if  he  marries  her,  I  shall  be 
so  glad." 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

"  Now  help  ye  charming  spells  and  periaptt. 
And  ye  choice  spirits  that  admonish  me, 
And  give  me  signs  of  future  accidents." 

SHAKSPEARK. 

DAY  passed,  night  came  and  went,  with  all  her  train  of  thought- 
ful  stars,  and  the  hours  grew  more  and  more  sad  to  Olivia  de 
Alvaro,  in  the  solitude  of  her  chamber.  The  sense  of  pain  and 
apprehension  increased  to  absolute  terror,  as  it  became  cer- 
tain that  she  was  not  to  see  Don  Philip  that  night.  She  sate  be- 
side the  verandah  below  stairs  till  a  very  late  hour ;  and  O  !  the 
hopelessness  and  woe  of  that  sick  suffering  soul,  left  to  its  own 
miserable  musings,  and  struggling  against  its  own  terrible  conscious- 
ness. Youth  has  wonderful  resources  against  every  evil  but  the 
sense  of  shame.  Beauty  maintains  a  glorious  elasticity  in  its  own 
ecstasies  of  hope,  provided  you  do  not  crush  it  with  a  doubt  of  its 
own  purity.  But  if  this  doubt  be  present,  it  hangs  above  the 
heart  with  all  the  threatening  terrors  of  the  thunder-cloud.  You 
dare  not  trust  the  sunshine.  You  cannot  confide  to  the  breeze. 
The  whispers  of  the  grove  seem  to  repeat  the  secret  of  your 
fears.  The  stars  seem  mournful  witnesses  against  you,  and  you 
dread  lest  the  fierce  glances  of  the  noonday  sun  will  suddenly 
penetrate  your  prison-house,  and  lay  bare  to  the  world  its  dread- 
ful mysteries.  Shame  is  a  haunting  spectre  that  will  down  at  no 
man's  bidding.  It  is  thus  terrible  to  man ;  but  to  woman, 
young,  beautiful,  pure  in  spirit,  and  hopeful  still,  in  the  possession 
of  generous  passions  and  loving  sympathies,  it  is  the  demon  that 
implies  all  horrors,  past  and  future ;  that  mars  all  felicity  with  a 
voice  of  doom,  and  threatens  every  breath  of  hope  and  feeling 
with  the  tortures  of  eternal  sorrow.  The  soul  thus  haunted  can- 
not well  bo  said  to  live.  It  enjoys  nothing.  It  distrusts  all  pleas- 

295 


296  VASCONSELOS. 

ures,  all  friendships,  loves,  associations.  The  eyes  that  look  upon 
it  seem  spies,  the  voices  that  address  it  seem  accusers.  The  very 
passions  and  sympathies,  thus  overshadowed,  grow  to  scorpions, 
that  fasten  upon  the  being  in  whose  heart  they  harbor.  To 
describe  the  sorrows  of  such  a  being,  in  detail,  would  be  impos- 
sible. This  would  be  to  analyze  every  emotion,  thought,  fancy ; 
and  to  discern  the  self-suggested  doubt  and  apprehension  which 
the  mind  continually  conjures  up  for  its  own  agony.  If,  from 
such  a  knowledge  of  her  situation  as  we  have  been  enabled  to  give, 
the  reader  cannot  conceive  of  the  miserable  melancholy  of  Oliv- 
ia's mood,  nothing  now  may  be  said  more  fully  to  enlighten  him. 
There  are  some  agencies  which  are  indescribable ;  beyond  which 
•we  may  not  go — beyond  which  we  may  not  see — over  which  the 
curtain  drops  of  itself,  and  which  we  thence  only  venture  to  con- 
template through  means  of  conjectures,  which  still,  for  the  sake 
of  humanity,  imply  uncertainty.  We  give  to  the  sufferer  the 
benefit  of  the  doubt,  and  in  some  degree  feel  a  relief  from  having 
done  so.  It  is  a  relief  not  to  believe  too  much.  We  prefer  to 
suppose  that  the  victim  has  some  alternative  by  which  to  escape 
from  a  situation  the  agonies  of  which  are  too  exquisite  for  en- 
durance. 

How,  in  what  gloomy  wakefulness,  and  torturing  thought, 
Olivia  passed  the  night,  we  shall  not  pretend  to  describe.  Nature 
at  last,  in  her  utter  exhaustion,  compelled  thought  to  silence.  She 
slept,  but  not  till  a  very  late  hour.  It  was  midnight  when  Don 
Balthazar  reached  home.  She  heard  him  enter  the  house,  and 
immediately  proceeded  to  assure  herself  that  her  door  was  fas- 
tened. The  secret  door  leading  to  her  chamber,  of  which  she  only 
recently  had  knowledge,  she  also  contrived  to  provide  against  by 
a  heavy  piece  of  furniture,  which  promised  to  render  it  unavail- 
able to  the  intruder.  This  done,  the  eyes  of  the  damsel  grew 
weary,  and  after  a  sobbing  prayer,  she  soon  sank  to  slumber.  She 
slept  late  the  next  day,  and  was  awakened  by  Juana  tapping  at 
the  entrance.  Don  Balthazar  had  already  departed  for  the  city, 
and  Olivia  felt  relieved  at  the  intelligence.  She  took  a  light 
breakfast,  but  was  oppressed  by  heaviness  after  it.  Her  eyes 


JUANA'S  REVELATIONS.  297 

drooped,  and  her  spirits.  She  looked  about  her,  made  efforts  to 
shake  off  the  feeling,  which  she  ascribed  to  her  previous  wakeful- 
ness,  and  bustled  accordingly  about  her  chamber.  But  the  feel- 
ing increased.  She  remarked  with  surprise  that  the  beaufet,  in 
which  she  kept  certain  little  delicacies,  sweetmeats,  cocoa,  bon-bons, 
and  other  trifles  of  like  sort,  was  unfastened.  She  had  secured 
it,  as  she  believed,  the  night  before,  and  as  she  had  always  been 
particularly  careful  to  do  so,  she  was  annoyed  by  the  circum- 
stance. It  flashed  across  her  mind  that  some  one  must  have  visited 
her  chamber  while  she  slept.  But  it  was  evident  that  the  secret 
door  could  not  be  penetrated  from  without,  fastened  as  it  was  by  a 
massive  piece  of  furniture,  and  the  ordinary  entrance  had  not 
been  disturbed.  She  was  compelled  to  dismiss  the  suspicion, 
which,  could  she  have  entertained,  might  have  led  her  to  another 
mode  of  accounting  for  her  drowsiness.  This  increased  as  the 
day  proceeded.  She  was,  however,  somewhat  kept  alive  by  the 
unwonted  freedom  of  Juana's  communications.  Hitherto  she 
had  kept  the  girl  at  a  distance;  holding  her  to  be  an  object  of  as 
much  suspicion  as  her  mother,  Anita.  But  of  late,  and  since  the 
advent  of  the  hateful  Sylvia,  Juana  had  been  more  devoted  to  her 
young  mistress,  more  solicitous  to  serve  her,  and  had  shown  her 
sympathy  on  several  occasions,  when  sympathy  from  the  hum- 
blest source  must  necessarily  be  grateful  to  the  torn  and  suffering 
heart  of  the  unhappy  damsel.  Juana's  own  heart  was  too  full 
now,  any  longer  to  keep  the  secret  of  her  brother.  She  told  the 
whole  story  of  his  presence  in  Havana,  his  discovery,  the  pur- 
suit of  him,  urged  by  the  beagles  of  the  law,  at  the  instance  of 
Don  Balthazar,  and  his  lucky  escape.  But  she  said  not  a  syllable 
of  the  interposition  of  Don  Philip  de  Vasconselos.  Her  com- 
munications did  not  rest  here.  She  told  most  of  the  particulars 
of  the  midnight  conference  between  Don  Balthazar  and  the  out- 
law, the  lures  held  out  to  the  latter,  the  promises  made  of  free- 
dom for  himself  and  her,  and  the  future  management  of  the 
estate, — not  forgetting  the  criminal  condition  by  which  the  outlaw 
was  to  secure  these  benefits.  Once  opened,  the  stream  of  rev- 
elation was  unbroken  until  the  whole  fountain  was  emptied.  But 
13* 


298  VASCONSELOS. 

there  was  another  reservation  which  the  girl  made.  She  did  not 
say  who  was  the  victim  whom  the  hate  of  Don  Balthazar  required 
the  outlaw  to  assassinate.  In  reply  to  the  eager  and  apprehensive 
inquiry  of  Olivia,  she  professed  not  to  know.  But  Olivia  knew. 
Her  instincts  readily  divined  the  secret,  as  she,  better  than  any 
body  else,  knew  well  what  were  her  uncle's  necessities  and  danger, 
and  how  naturally  he  regarded  Philip  de  Vasconselos  as  his  worst 
enemy. 

"  Holy  Maria !"  murmured  the  poor  girl  to  herself:  "Will 
he  murder  him  because  he  hath  destroyed  his  hope  as  well  as 
mine !  Oh !  surely,  I  must  do  something  here !" 

Then  aloud,  to  Juana,  she  said — 

"But  your  brother  will  never  do  this  horrid  deed,  Juana?" 

"  No !  no !  Senorita ;  not  now,  I'm  thinking.  He  might  have 
done  it  yesterday,  perhaps ;  but  now,  when  he  finds  that  Don 
Balthazar  keeps  no  faith  with  him,  and  puts  the  alguazils  at  his 
back,  just  as  he  has  made  a  solemn  bargain  with  him  before  the 
angels, — Mateo  will  never  trust  him,  or  work  for  him  in  any 
way." 

"  Hear  me,  Juana  !  I  will  give  Mateo  and  yourself  freedom. 
It  is  to  me  you  belong " 

"  Yes,  Senorita,  to  be  sure ;  but  you  are  not  of  age  yet,  you 
know,  and  your  uncle  is.your  guardian  till  then  ;  and  he " 

"  I  know  all  that,  Juana ;  but  do  you  and  your  brother  serve 
me.  faithfully — do  all  that  I  shall  require  in  the  meantimfe,  and  I 
will  provide  that  you  shall  both  have  your  freedom  as  soon  as  I 
am  of  legal  age.  Meanwhile,  I  will  see  the  Lady  Isabella,  who 
is  very  kind  to  me,  and  through  her  I  will  get  Mateo's  pardon 
for  the  crimes  of  which  he  has  been  guilty." 

'"Oh  !  will  you,  dear  Senorita,  my  most  dear  Senorita?  But 
what  do  you  want  us  to  do  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  hereafter.  At  present  I  hardly  know  myself. 
I  must  think.  I  see  that  there  is  something  to  be  done,  but  now, 
I  scarcely  know  what.  My  head  feels  very  confused,  and  I  am 
so  drowsy.  I  slept  but  little  last  night.  I  shall  think  of  every- 
thing during  the  day.  Meanwhile,  do  you  contrive  to  see  your 


ANOTHER  BID   FOB  MATEO.  299 

brother,  and  tell  him  what  I  have  said.  Tell  him,  above  all 
things,  not  to  lift  hand  or  weapon  against  Don  Philip " 

"  But  I  didn't  say  'twas  Don  Philip,  Senorita." 

"  No  matter !  I  know !  It  can  be  no  other.  If  he  hurts  one 
hair  of  Don  Philip's  head,  I  will  have  him  hunted  up  in  the 
mountains  by  all  the  troops  of  the  Adelantado,  and  I  will  never 
sleep  till  they  bring  him  to  the  garote  vil.  Now,  warn  him. 
Let  him  be  faithful  to  me,  and  I  will  make  you  both  free.  See 
him  soon.  Go,  now.  Hasten !  Find  him.  Do  not  rest  till 
you  tell  him  all.  But  whisper  not  a  word  of  this  to  any  other 
living  soul." 

Juana  did  not  need  a  second  command  to  depart  in  search  of 
her  brother.  Her  absence  was  noted  by  Sylvia,  who  was  furious 
at  the  escape  of  Mateo  from  the  alguazils.  She  was  soon  upon 
the  track  of  the  serving-girl,  whose  superior  agility,  however,  ena- 
bled her  finally  to  elude  the  pursuit  of  the  old  woman.  Meanwhile, 
Olivia  had  a  visitor  in  the  gay  young  wife  of  Nuno  de  Tobar, 
who  found  her  sinking  back  into  that  state  of  languor  and  apathy 
from  which  the  communication  of  Juana  had  momentarily  aroused 
her.  Her  energies  had  risen,  with  the  temporary  excitement, 
to  subside  as  suddenly  ;  and  the  lively  prattle  of  Leonora  seemed 
to  be  wasted  entirely  upon  the  ears  to  which  it  was  addressed. 
The  gay  young  woman  came  in  with  a  bound,  full  of  anticipations 
in  respect  to  her  young  hostess. 

"  Well,  my  child,"  said  she,  " it  is  all  settled,  I  suppose?" 

"  What  is  settled,  Leonora  ?" 

"  Why,  that  you  are  to  be  the  bride  of  Don  Philip." 

"  No !  It  is  settled  only  that  I  am  not  to  be  the  bride  of  Don 
Philip !"  was  the  sad  reply. 

"  What !  Olivia,  you  have  not  been  so  foolish  as  to  refuse 
him  ?  You  who  really  love  him  so !" 

"  He  has  not  given  me  the  opportunity,  Leonora." 

"  How  !     But  he  has  been  here  ]" 

"  No !" 

"  Is  it  possible !  Well,  that  is  very  strange !  I  got  from 
Nuno  that  he  was  surely  to  come  to  see  you  yesterday." 


300  VASCONSELOS. 

"  He  did  not  come !"  was  the  answer,  in  sad  tones. 

"  That  is  certainly  very  curious.  He  told  Nuno  that  he  would 
visit  you  in  the  evening.  That  was  yesterday  morning.  Nuno 
spent  the  morning  with  him,  and  said  he  was  in  the  greatest 
spirits;  that  he  did  nothing  but  talk  of  you,  and  of  your  beauty' 
and  sweetness,  and  grace  and  innocence  !" 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Olivia,  with  a  sudden  flushing  of  the  cheek, 
while  she  pressed  her  hand  upon  her  side  as  if  in  pain. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ]    Are  you  sick  "?" 

"  A  sudden  pain  !" 

"  You  have  these  sudden  pains  too  frequently.  You  keep  too 
much  at  home.  Home  always  fills  me  with  pains.  It  don't 
agree  with  the  health  of  any  young  woman  not  to  go  frequently 
abroad,  where  she  can  see  and  be  seen.  That's  what  I  tell  Nuno 
when  he  wants  to  quarrel  with  me  for  going  out  so  much. 
Though,  in  truth,  I  do  not  go  out  so  very  often.  I  visit  nobody 
but  you,  and  the  Lady  Isabella,  and  Donna  Vicente  de  Ladrone, 
and  the  Senoritas  Guzman,  and  dear  little  Maria  de  Levoine, 
and  Theresa  Moreno,  and  a  few  others.  But  I  tell  Nuno  that  it 
is  not  for  the  love  of  it  that  I  visit ;  it  is  only  for  my  health.  I 
should  have  just  those  sort  of  pains  that  trouble  you,  if  I  did  not 
show  myself  everywhere  every  day;  and  I  tell  Nuno  I  am  not 
going  to  make  myself  sick  by  minding  what  he  says.  Oh  !  he's 
like  all  other  men,  and  would  be  nothing  less  than  a  tyrant  if 
I'd  let  him.  And  do  you  be  warned  in  time.  When  you  marry 
Don  Philip  take  your  position  firmly  at  the  outset ;  and  seize 
the  first  opportunity  of  putting  your  foot  down  so — and  saying, 
'  'Twont  do,  Don  Philip  !  You  are  quite  mistaken  in  your  wo- 
man. I  am  my  own  mistress,  Don  Philip,  and  if  you  were  a 
wise  gentleman,  and  a  gallant,  I  should  be  yours  also  !'  That's 
what  you  must  say  and  do,  Olivia,  if  you'd  be  a  free  woman 
and  a  ruling,  happy  wife.  It's  the  only  way !" 

And  she  stamped  very  prettily,  with  a  properly  graceful  em- 
phasis, with  her  pretty  little  left  foot,  and  tossed  her  tresses  with 
the  air  of  a  sultana.  But  Olivia  only  smiled  sadly  in  reply,  and 
shook  her  head. 


HOW  TO   MAKE   AN   OFFER.  301 

"  Oh  !  don't  shake  your  head  so  pathetically.  You  are  troub- 
led with  the  blues  only,  and  will  recover  as  soon  as  Don  Philip 
comes  singing — '  Will  you,  will  you, — won't  you,  Olivia  V  And 
he  will  come,  I  assure  you.  I  only  wonder,  after  what  he  said 
yesterday,  that  he  was  not  here  last  evening.  He  will  be  sure 
to  come  this,  so  take  care  and  see  to  your  toilet.  \Put  on  your 
best  smiles,  and  be  sure  to  wear  your  pearls,  they  are  so  becom- 
ing to  you.  Oh !  when  he  goes  to  Florida  he  will  send  you 
bushels  of  them.  Nuno  promises  me  any  quantity;  and  what 
do  you  think,  Olive  ?  he  tells  me  that,  in  that  country,  the  Apa- 
latchies  raise  them  from  the  seed.  Think  of  that.  I  can  hardly 
believe  him.  Only  think  of  planting  your  garden  with  seed- 
pearl,  and  raising  them  in  any  quantity  and  size.  He  says  that 
they  can  be  grown  larger  than  the  largest  fowl-egg,  only  by 
manuring  them  with  star-dust.  But  what  is  star-dust  ?  He 
wouldn't  tell  me  that.  Only  said  there  was  a  plenty  of  it  to  be 
had  in  every  country,  and  more  in  Cuba  than  any  other." 

To  all  this  Olivia  had  to  smile  only,  but  in  such  a  sort  did  she 
smile,  that  even  the  lively  visitor  was  somewhat  chilled  by  it. 

"  Oh  do  !"  said  she,  "  Olivia,  shake  off  these  gloomy  fits.  I 
tell  you  he  will  come,  and  will  be  at  your  feet  within  twenty-fotir 
hours ;  and  you  will  pout,  and  hesitate,  and  tremble,  and  say 
nothing.  Then  he  will  take  your  hand,  and  he  will  carry  it  to 
his  lips,  and  you  will  tremble  more  than  ever ;  but  you  will 
never  think  to  draw  your  hand  away,  which  is  a  thing  so  easily 
done  that  it  does  not  seem  worth  while  to  do  it ;  and  then  he 
will  rise  and  seat  himself  beside  you  on  the  settee,  and  with  one 
hand  holding  yours  he  will  put  the  other  about  your  waist,  and 
suddenly  he  will  mistake  your  mouth  for  the  hand  he  has  been 
kissing,  and  he  will  kiss  that ;  and  after  he  has  gone  so  far,  you 
will  see  that  there  is  no  sense  in  refusing  him  the  use  of  the 
things  that  he  knows  so  well  what  to  do  with." 

"  Never,  Leonora.  Do  not  speak  of  it.  I  do  not  think  that 
Don  Philip  cares  for  me,  and  I  assure  you  we  shall  never  be 
married." 

"Oh!  I  know  better!     You  mustn't   refuse  Don  Philip  on 


302  VASCONSELOS. 

any  account.  He  will  take  you  out  of  the  custody  of  your  un- 
cle, who  is  only  a  sort  of  great  Moorish  bull,  such  as  fought  the 
other  day  in  the  ring ;  and  a  monstrous  pretty  fight  he  made, 
indeed  !  If  I  could  see  Don  Balthazar  fighting  in  the  same  man- 
ner, till  he  was  killed,  and  dead  outright,  and  lying  sprawling  in 
red  blood,  and  with  his  neck  and  shoulder  stuck  full  of  banderillas, 
I  think  I  should  like  him  a  great  deal  better.  But  now  I  don't 
like  him  at  all.  Here  he  keeps  you  no  better  than  a  prisoner. 
In  fact,  Olivia,  I  half  suspect  he  likes  you  better,  as  a  woman, 
than  as  a  niece,  and  would  rather  not  see  you  married  to  any- 
body." 

Olivia  started  at  this  random  shaft ;  rose  from  the  settee ;  and 
with  staring  eye  and  flushed  cheek,  gazed  her  answer ;  vague, 
wild,  utterly  unmeaning,  as  it  seemed,  to  the  remark  of  Leonora. 

"  What !  dear  child,  another  of  those  cruel  pains  ?  I  must 
send  you  some  famous  drops  I  have.  Sit  down  again  !  Lie  down, 
Olive,  dear.  I  can  speak  to  you  just  as  well  when  you  lie  as 
when  you  sit.  There,  rest  yourself  for  awhile.  Poor,  dear 
creature,  how  your  cheek  pales  and  flushes,  in  an  instant,  and 
what  an  odd  look  you  have  in  your  eyes !  You  must  take  some 
of  my  drops,  and  take  more  exercise,  and  take  advice,  Olive,  and 
what's  more  and  better,  take  Don  Philip.  Oh !  he  will  cure  you 
of  all  these  infirmities.  That's  the  good  of  a  husband  !  Now 
don't  be  looking  so  woeful  and  low-spirited.  Positively,  there 
are  big  tears  in  your  eyes  !  What  have  I  been  saying  to  make 
you  so  sad  1  I'm  sure  I  meant  to  be  very  lively  and  very  good- 
natured,  and  to  tell  you  only  such  things  as  would  please  you. 
By  the  way,  something  odd  of  your  Don  Philip.  You  must 
know  that  he  has  the  most  eccentric  tastes  in  the  world.  What 
do  you  think  ?  He  gave  Nuno  a  commission  to  buy  him  a  negro 
boy,  a  sort  of  lacquey,  fifteen  or  sixteen — a  lad  to  go  on  mes- 
sages, and  polish  his  armor,  and  help  lace  him  in  it,  and  perhaps 
dress  his  hair — who  knows  what  sort  of  duties  the  page  of  a 
young  gallant  has  to  perform  ?  Well,  Nuno,  who  knows  every- 
body, busies  himself  to  procure  this  lad  for  him,  and  sends  him 
half  a  hundred,  more  or  less,  of  the  best  black  boys,  for  such  a 


A   REFINED  TASTE.  303 

purpose,  in  all  Havana.  And  none  pleases  our  excellent  Don 
Philip.  He  has  a  taste,  would  you  believe  it,  even  in  the  choice 
of  a  negro.  He  requires  the  boy  to  be  graceful  and  good-look- 
ing, as  if  such  a  thing  was  to  be  found  !  He  must  needs  have  a 
negro  handsome  !  Was  ever  such  an  absurdity  !  Such  a  whim  ! 
So  ridiculous  !  To  one,  he  objects  because  he  is  bowlegged  ;  to 
another,  because  he  squints ;  to  a  third,  because  his  forehead  is 
back  of  his  ears ;  to  a  fourth,  because  his  mouth  is  like  a  cavern,  as 
huge  as  that  of  Covandonga,  and  forever  open.  He  says  that  sleep- 
ing some  night  in  Florida,  a  cayman  will  go  down  his  throat, 
and  he  shall  lose  his  negro  and  his  money.  And  thus,  positively, 
he  has  refused  every  negro  that  has  been  brought  him.  What's 
to  be  done  with  such  a  man  1  But  I  tell  Nuno,  these  are  only 
his  humors,  because  he's  unsettled.  He's  not  thinking  of  the 
negro  at  all;  only  of  you,  Olivia — only  of  you!  Now,  for  my 
part,  as  I  told  Nuno,  I  don't  wish  a  good-looking  negro  about 
me.  The  idea  of  a  handsome  negro  is  unreasonable  and  unnatu- 
ral. The  uglier  the  better.  Beauty  and  good  looks  would  be 
entirely  out  of  place  in  such  an  animal." 

We  despair  fully  of  success,  in  the  endeavor  to  keep  pace,  as 
a  reporter,  with  the  tongue  of  the  lively  Leonora.  Enough  that,  af- 
ter a  certain  period,  its  exertions  were  relaxed.  Even  she  herself 
tired  finally  of  the  fruitless  effort  to  provoke  interest  or  curiosi- 
ty in  what  she  said,  in  a  mind  so  utterly  absorbed,  a  spirit  so 
utterly  subdued  and  sad,  as  that  of  Olivia.  The  latter  drooped, 
and  became  more  and  more  apathetic  in  proportion  to  the  efforts 
of  Leonora  to  arouse  her  ;  and,  giving  up  the  task,  in  no  satisfied 
humor,  she  at  length  took  her  departure,  with  a  promise  to  re- 
turn as  soon  as  she  could  hear  that  Don  Philip  had  made  his 
visit. 

Olivia  yielded  to  her  apathy  as  soon  as  her  companion  had 
gone.  It  grew  to  absolute  drowsiness,  in  spite  of  sundry  efforts 
which  she  made  to  arouse  herself;  which  she  did  the  rather  to 
shake  off  a  feeling  which  oppressed  her,  than  with  any  necessity 
for  doing  the  several  things  about  the  house  which  she  undertook. 
But,  as  the  hour  for  the  siesta  drew  nigh,  she  yielded  to  the  subtle 


304  VASCONSELOS. 

influence  which  possessed  her,  and  which  she  persuaded  herself 
was  due  to  the  heat  of  the  day,  and  the  absence  of  the  freshening 
breezes  of  the  sea.  She  had  disposed  herself  on  the  settee  as  for 
sleep,  when  Juana  reappeared,  much  flurried  and  exhausted. 
She  had  failed  to  find  her  brother,  after  a  long  and  very  fatigu- 
ing search  ia  all  the  well-known  places.  It  was  probable,  so 
Juana  thought,  that  the  late  pursuit  of  the  alguazils  had  driven 
Mateo  from  the  estate.  We,  however,  knew  better.  He  had 
simply  found  it  necessary  to  shift  his  quarters,  and  to  exercise  a 
little  more  caution.  He  may  have  temporarily  left  the  grounds, 
but  he  did  not  abandon  them.  In  truth,  to  state  a  fact  which 
poor  Juana  did  not  conjecture,  he  found  it  necessary  for  his  own 
safety  to  elude  her  search.  She  it  was,  who,  with  a  foolish  fond- 
ness, had  brought  old  Sylvia  and  the  alguazils  upon  his  track.  He 
kept  from  her  sight,  and  changed  his  ground  at  her  approach. 
The  girl  was  very  much  troubled  by  the  failure  of  her  search. 
Olivia  might  have  felt  and  shown  quite  as  much  concern  on  hear- 
ing her  report,  but  for  the  torpor  that  had  now  seized  upon  her 
faculties.  She  repeated  her  commands  to  Juana  to  find  her 
brother,  and  arrest  his  knife,  in  so  many  murmurs. 

"  It  is  very  warm  and  oppressive,  Juana.  We  shall  have  a 
thunder-storm.  I  am  very  drowsy." 

Juana  shook  her  head.  She  ascribed  her  mistress's  drowsiness 
to  a  very  different  cause.  She  had  enjoyed  some  of  the  experience 
of  old  Anita,  and  she  muttered  to  herself — "  She  has  had  the 
spice  !"  Aloud,  she  said, — 

"  It  is  warm,  Senorita,  and  close,  but  I  don't  think  there  will 
be  any  thunder-storm.  In  a  little  while  the  sea-breeze  will  wake 
up,  and  you  will  feel  better,  perhaps." 

"  I  will  go  to  the  summer-house,  Juana,  and  take  my  siesta,  if 
you  think  there  will  be  no  thunder-storm.  Carry  my 'dress  for 
the  evening  over  there,  and  my  jewel-case.  I  will  make  my  toilet 
there.  We  need  apprehend  no  visitors  now  until  evening,  I  think, 
and  you  need  not  disturb  me  until  the  proper  time  to  dress." 

She  gave  other  directions — had  some  oranges,  now  in  their 
prime,  carried  to  the  summer-house,  and  with  languid  limbs 


THE   SUMMER  HOUSE.  305 

went  thither,  after  awhile,  herself;  her  whole  appearance  being 
that  of  one  not  only  indifferent,  but  insensible  to  external  things. 
The  summer-house  was  a  retreat  happily  conceived  for  a  cli- 
mate like  that  of  Cuba.     It  held  a  neatly  furnished,  airy  apart- 
ment, surrounded  by  a  colonnade  which  effectually  excluded  the 
sunlight  from  its  floors.     It  was  surrounded  by  ample  thickets, 
which  added  to  the  shade,  and  seemed  to  give  security.     It  was  a 
sweet  solitude,  the  chosen  retreat  of  contemplation.    Here  silence 
had  full  empire.     A  happy  succession  of  small  courts  and  avenues 
through  the  thickets,  opening  in  all  directions,  gave  free  admission 
to  the  breeze.     These  avenues  ran  through  long  tracts  of  the  palm, 
the  orange,  the  grenadilla,  and  the  anana.     Their  several  fruits, 
more  or  less  ripe,  hung  lusciously  in  sight,  in  close  proximity,  and 
drooping  to  the   hand.     On   each   side,  the   passages  were  cut 
through  seeming  walls  of  thicket,  affording  arched  walks  of  the 
most  noble  natural  Gothic.    These  all  conducted  to  the  one  centre, 
in  the  light  and  airy  octagon  cot  to  which  Olivia  had  retired.    This 
fabric  was  very  slight,  a  mere  framework  of  wood ;  the  columns 
around  it  being  more  solid  than  the  structure ;  and  at  a  glance 
seemed  to  be  constructed  literally  of  palm,  bamboos,  and  other 
flexible  and  tenacious  shrub  trees,  peculiar  to  that  region  ;  which, 
lopt  from  their  roots,  will  sometimes  bud  and  blossom,  like  the 
miraculous  rod  of  the  prophet.     The  bamboos  were  artfully  in- 
terwoven, and  roofed  with  the  thick  leaves  of  palm,  and  plantain, 
and  fig.     These  were  all  so  many  plates  and  shields,  green,  broad, 
and  with  glossy  velvet  coating  that  might  effectually  baffle  the 
fierce  glances  of  the  sun,  even  if  there  were  no  loftier  shadows 
from  great  trees,  that  stretched  their  broad  and  massive  boughs  be- 
tween.    Art  had  done  its  best,  within  the  cottage,  to  emulate  the 
handiwork  of  nature  without.     There  was  no  lack  of  the  neces-  - 
sary  supply  of  curtains  and  cushions.     The  former  drooped  in 
green  or  blue  before  the  several  openings  of  the  cottage,  which 
was,  in  fact,  only  a  group  of  verandahs,  placed  in  parallelism, 
shutting  out  the  light,  but  readily  yielding  to  the  pressure  of  tho 
breeze.     Upon  one  of  the  piles  of  cushions  Olivia  sunk  down ; 
taking  naturally  an  attitude  of  grace,  and  exhibiting  an  outline 


306  VASCONSELOS. 

exquisitely  rounded,  such  as  frequently  distinguishes  the  figure  of 
the  woman  trained  in  a  life  of  luxurious  ease,  and  in  that  deli- 
cious- climate.  She  seems,  at  once,  to  sleep.  Her  eyes  close. 
Her  sense  is  steeped  in  oblivion.  She  dreams,  yet  she  does  not 
sleep.  She  feels,  but  she  is  not  conscious.  Her  blood  stagnates 
in  her  veins ;  yet  it  works  potently  in  her  brain.  She  is  in  a 
morbid  and  unnatural  condition.  She  is  under  the  influence  of 
"periapts" — spells,  which  steep  the  sense  in  oblivion — in  un- 
consciousness of  evil, — making  the  victim  deaf  to  the  very  thun- 
ders that  roll  above  his  head,  and  blind  to  the  forms  of  terror, 
or  of  danger,  that  flit  before  his  eye.  She  has  partaken  of  u  the 
insane  root  that  takes  the  reason  prisoner."  The  potent  medi- 
cine which  now  seals  up  her  consciousness  was  one  of  the  se- 
crets of  her  fearful  uncle.  She  has  suspected  him  ; — she  has, — 
as  we  have  already  seen,  endeavored  to  evade  his^arts  ;  but  they 
have  been  too  much  for  her.  She  little  dreams  that  he  possesses 
avenues  to  all  her  hiding-places,  keys  of  power  to  persuade  to 
yielding,  every  lock  and  bolt  which  she  deems  secure.  At  the 
very  moment  when  she  fancied  herself  most  safe,  and  was  begin- 
ning to  exult  in  the  conviction  that  she  could  baffle  and  defy  his 
arts,  her  strength  failed  her — her  powers  all  frozen  by  his  terrible 
spells.  Late  that  day  he  reached  home  and  asked  for  Olivia.  He 
was  told  by  Juana  that  she  was  in  the  summer-house — that  she 
slept.  A  knowing  smile  slightly  curled  his  lip.  Dinner  was 
served  him  in  his  chamber.  The  wine  of  Xeres  sparkled  before 
him.  He  drank  with  the  manner  of  one  who  enjoys  a  tempo- 
rary respite  from  all  the  cares  of  life.  He  finished  the  goblet ; 
refilled  it ;  finally  emptied  the  flask,  and  threw  himself  into  his 
hammock,  with  a  cigar.  He  smoked  for  a  while,  then  rose,  drew 
forth  another  flask  of  wine,  broached  it  and  drank  freely;  finished 
his  cigar  in  his  hammock,  and  after  a  little  while,  restlessly  work- 
ed himself  out  of  it.  His  eye  was  humid,  his  cheeks  flushed,  his 
steps  uncertain.  He  looked  about  him  with  an  air  of  hesitation, 
•then  repeated  his  draught  from  the  flask,  and.  with  a  sudden  im- 
pulse, hurried  out  into  the  verandah,  and  down  the  steps  into  the 
garden.  The  keen  eyes  of  Juana  followed  him  from  below. 


DARK  DESIGNS.  307 

She  saw  that  he  made  his  way  towards  the  summer-house,  while 
he  fancied  himself  unseen. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  muttered  sotto  voce,  as  she  watched,  "  Oh  !  if  the 
garoie  vil  only  had  its  teeth  in  the  neck  of  the  right  one,  I  know 
who  would  never  drink  two  whole  wine-flasks  at  a  sitting,  and 

then  ! "  The  sentence  was  left  unfinished,  unless  the  final 

ejaculation,  after  some  pause,  may  be  considered  a  proper  part 
of  it : — "  Oh  !  the  poor  Senorita  !  " 

Juana  was  not  much  given  to  pity.  It  wa&  nate  to  the  uncle, 
rather  than  sympathy  for  the  niece,  that  caused  her  ejacula 
tions ! 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Approach  the  chamber,  and  destroy  your  sight 
With  a  new  Gorgon." 

MACBETH. 

THE  day  had  been  one  of  considerable  bustle  in  Havana,  and 
Don  Balthazar  had  been  very  busy  all  the  morning.  Juan  de 
Anasco,  the  contador,  a  brave,  choleric  little  fellow,  who  united 
all  the  qualities  of  the  soldier,  with  the  experience  of  the  sailor, 
had  been  a  second  time  dispatched  to  coast  the  shores  of  Florida, 
in  order  to  find  a  proper  harbor  to  which  the  expedition  might 
sail  direct.  He  arrived  the  previous  night,  after  a  protracted 
voyage  of  three  months,  during  which  great  fears  were  enter- 
tained that  he  had  been  lost  at  sea.  His  escape  had  been  a  nar- 
row one,  and  it  will  illustrate  the  superstitions  of  his  time  and 
people,  to  show  how  he  returned  thanks  to  Heaven  for  his  resto- 
ration and  safety.  In  fulfilment  of  a  vow,  made  at  a  moment  of 
extreme  peril,  he  and  all  his  crew,  the  moment  they  reached  the 
shores  of  Havana,  threw  themselves  upon  their  knees,  and  in 
this  manner  crawled  to  church  to  hear  mass.  Then  he  made 
nis  report  of  disasters  and  discoveries,  and  described  a  secure 
harbor  which  he  had  found  in  Florida.  The  armament  of  De 
Soto  had  been  nearly  ready  for  several  days  before.  It  needed 
now  but  little  further  preparation,  and  waited,  in  fact,  but  a  fa- 
vorable wind.  The  report  of  Anasco  stimulated  the  industry  of 
all  parties.  De  Soto  was  impatient  to  depart,  and  his  desires 
were  so  many  keen  spurs  in  the  sides  of  the  lieutenants,  keep- 
ing them  incessantly  employed.  Don  Balthazar,  as  we  have  men- 
tioned, had  been  very  busy  all  the  morning,  and  hence,  perhaps, 
his  rather  free  indulgence  in  the  pleasures  of  the  wine-cup  after 
the  toils  of  the  day  were  over. 

308 


LOVE  AND  AMBITION. 

That  night  there  was  a  great  feast  to  be  given  by  the  Adelan- 
tado,  to  the  cavaliers  and  chiefs  of  his  army,  and  the  principal 
persons  of  Havana.  It  was  the  policy  of  De  Soto  to  keep  up 
the  enthusiasm  of  his  people  in  regard  to  the  expedition,  and  to 
conciliate  the  affections  of  those  whom  he  was  to  leave  behind  him 
under  the  government  of  his  wife.  To  this  feast,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  the  two  Portuguese  brothers  were  invited,  and  Andres,  the 
younger,  though  just  recovered  from  his  illness,  had  resolved  to 
attend.  Not  so,  Philip.  He  had  fully  resolved  not  to  accom- 
pany the  expedition ; — we  have  seen  with  what  reason.  He  en- 
joyed no  command,  and  felt  that  he  had  not  made  himself  friends 
among  the  Spaniards,  and  that  he  could  never  become  the0' favor- 
ite of  the  Adelantado.  But  his  chief  reason,  perhaps,  lay  in  the 
growth  of  his  hopes  of  favor  in  the  eyes  of  Olivia  de  Alvaro.  If 
she  approved  and  consented  to  his  prayer,  the  conquest  of  Florida 
would  possess  no  attractions  in  his  eyes.  His  ambition  had  grown 
moderate,  as  his  love  increased  in  fervor.  His  passion  for  ad- 
venture had  suddenly  become  subdued  in  the  birth  and  growth 
of  a  more  powerful  passion.  If  Olivia  smiled,  what  was  Florida 
to  him  ?  He  cared  nothing  for  its  golden  treasures.  The  pearls 
which  it  seemed  to  proffer  were  worthless,  in  comparison  with 
those  of  love.  And  he  was  hopeful.  That  Olivia  loved  him  he 
could  scarcely  doubt.  Her  eyes  had  shown  it — her  emotions — 
the  public  voice  seemed  to  proclaim  it ;  and  Nuno  de  Tobar,  who 
brought  him  the  favorable  reports  of  his  gay  young  wife,  held  it 
to  be  beyond  all  question,  and  solemnly  assured  him  to  this  ef- 
fect. But  Nuno  was  not  prepared  to  countenance  the  lover  in 
his  refusal  to  take  part  in  the  expedition.  He  himself  was  about 
to  leave  the  young  and  beautiful  creature  whom  he  had  just  wed- 
ded ;  why  should  Philip  de  Vasconselos  be  more  anxious  than 
himself?  Why  should  so  brave  a  cavalier  refuse  all  opportuni- 
ties of  glory  and  conquest,  and  great  treasure,  and  power,  sim- 
ply because  he  was  a  lover  ?  The  notion  seemed  to  him  per- 
fectly ridiculous,  and  he  greatly  resented  the  absence  from  tho 
feast  upon  which  Philip  had  resolved. 


310  VASCONSELOS. 

"  It  will  never  do,  Philip,"  said  he. 

"  But  it  must  do,  Nuno,"  answered  the  other  gayly.  "  What 
should  I  do  at  this  supper  1  I  shall  not  be  a  favorite,  if  present. 
I  shall  win  none  of  De  Soto's  smiles,  and,  in  truth,  I  care  not  to 
win  them ; — and  I  shall  not  be  missed  if  absent.  There  will  be 
enough  to  shout  their  hopes  and  desires,  and  to  respond,  with 
sweet  echoes,  to  the  fine  promises  of  De  Soto.  There  will  be 
enough  for  the  wine,  at  all  events,  and  I  should  be  only  out  of 
place  in  a  scene,  for  which  my  temper  does  not  fit  me.  Besides, 
my  presence  will  only  have  the  effect  of  persuading  the  Adelan- 
tado  that  I  will  yet  accompany  the  expedition." 

"  And  you  must,  Philip ;  we  cannot  well  do  without  you." 

"  I  have  not  been  treated,  Nuno,  as  if  such  were  the  common 
opinion." 

"  But  it  is,  no  matter  how  they  have  treated  you  ;  such  is  their 
conviction,  no  less  than  mine !" 

"  Then  are  they  the  most  ungrateful  rascals  in  the  world,  and 
the  greater  fools,  too,"  replied  Philip.  "  But  not  to  vex  you, 
Nuno,  (and  for  your  sake  I  should  really  wish  to  go,  were  it 
proper  that  I  should,  under  the  present  circumstances),  I  am 
grown  too  tender-hearted  for  war !  Its  image  now  offends  me.  I 
see  nothing  persuasive  in  the  aspect  of  glory  :  there  is  nothing 
sweet  in  the  music  of  a  trumpet  charge,  though  it  leads  to  victory. 
My  dream  now  is  of  repose,  of  a  sweet  solitude  in  the  shade, 
with  a  pair  of  loving  eyes  looking  ever  into  mine,  and  the  voice 
of  a  true  heart  breathing  ever  in  my  ear  the  music  of  a  passion 
which  asks  first  for  peace — peace — peace !  This  dream  haunts 
me  ever.  It  takes  from  me  the  passion  as  the  pride  of  arms. 
It  compensates  for  all  I  lose.  With  Olivia  in  the  country,  I 
shall  be  too  happy  to  repine  at  any  of  your  conquests." 

"  Now  do  I  almost  wish  that  she  may  refuse  thee." 

"  No,  thou  dost  not." 

"  Thou  deservest  it !" 

"  What,  for  being  truer  and  more  devoted  to  love  than  to  am- 
bition r 


PHILIP'S   OBJECTIONS  TO   FLORIDA.  311 

"  No,  but  for  thy  desertion  of  thy  comrades." 

"  Comrades  !  Oh !  good  friend  and  brother  of  mine,  as  I  will  call 
thee,  for  thou  hast  been  true  to  me,  and  full  of  brotherly  loving 
since  I  have  known  thee — dost  thou  not  smile  within  thyself  at 
thy  own  folly,  when  thou  speakest  of  my  comrades  among  the 
cavaliers  of  De  Soto  ?" 

"  Am  I  not  thy  comrade,  and  wilt  thou  suffer  me  to  go  alone 
on  this  expedition  of  peril  ?" 

"  Thou  goest  with  thy  comrades,  Nuno,  but  not  with  mine. 
Thou  art  a  favorite,  where  they  look  upon  me  with  ill  favor. 
They  will  serve  thee  with  loyalty,  and  support  thee  ;  and  follow 
thy  lance  to  battle  with  a  joy;  and  exult  in  thy  victories.  But 
on  mine  they  look  only  with  evil  eyes.  Follow  thy  bent,  Nuno, 
and  cherish  thy  passion  for  conquest ;  and  none  will  more  truly 
rejoice  in  thy  successes  and  good  fortune  than  the  poor  knight 
of  Portugal.  But  thou  obey'st  a  passion  which  I  do  not  feel,  and 
thou  hast  encouragements  in  which  I  do  not  share.  Art  thou 
not  unreasonable,  mi  amiyo,  in  thy  demand  that  I  shall  partake 
of  the  peril  of  an  expedition  which  promises  neither  pride,  nor 
reward,  nor  favor  of  any  sort  1" 

Nuno  de  Tobar  was  silenced.  His  friend  had  spoken  but  the 
truth.  He  changed  the  subject. 

"So,  none  of  the  Ethiops  that  I  send  thee  will  answer? 
Verily,  Philip,  for  a  wise  man  thou  hast  strange  notions  of  thine 
own  !  Of  what  matter  to  thee  that  a  negro  slave  should  be 
handsome "?" 

"  Not  handsome,  but  well-looking.  Now,  all  those  that  were 
offered  me  were  among  the  ugliest  and  most  ill-looking  knaves 
in  the  world — models  of  deformity  and  ugliness.  I  confess  such 
as  these  offend  my  sight." 

"  It  is  the  common  aspect  of  the  race." 

"  Ay,  but  there  are  degrees,  in  which  these  aspects  do  not 
offend." 

"  It  will  be  long  ere  thou  art  suited.  But  the  silly  knight, 
De  Sinolar,  hath  promised  to  send  me  some  passable  urchins  for 
inspection ;  but  he  will  require  a  great  price  for  his  wares,  par- 


312  VASCONSELOS. 

ticularly  when  he  knows  they  are  for  thee.  He  regards  thee  as 
a  dangerous  rival." 

"  What !  aspires  he  to  Olivia  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed  ;  and  with  the  approbation,  it  is  thought,  of  her 
uncle.  De  Sinolar  was  greatly  annoyed  at  thy  success  in  the 
tourney,  and  would  have  taken  lance  himself — he  avowed — to 
encounter  thee ;  but  that  he  had  no  horse  to  be  relied  on,  and 
lances,  he  thought,  were  things  quite  too  frail  for  a  man  to  peril 
his  honor  upon.  He  hath  every  confidence  in  his  own  skill, 
strength  and  courage,  but  doubts  if  the  wit  of  man  hath  yet  con- 
ceived any  adequate  weapons  upon  which  these  may  securely 
rest  themselves  in  the  tournament.  He  holds  himself  in  reserve, 
however,  when  the  becoming  implements  of  battle  shall  be 
made." 

"  There  is  wit  in  the  knight's  philosophy.  Think  you  it  came 
from  himself?" 

"  Verily,  I  do  not.  He  reads  much  in  Amadis  and  other  ad- 
ventures of  chivalry,  and  the  excuse  hath  an  antique  fashion. 
And  thou  didst  not  see  the  Lady  Olivia  yesterday?" 

Philip  told  of  the  encounter  with  the  outlaw  and  the  alguazils, 
and  added, — 

"  But,  with  the  blessing  of  the  Virgin,  I  will  seek  her  to-day. 
While  you  are  preparing  for  your  feast  I  shall  speed  to  her 
dwelling,  resolved  to  put  to  hazard  all  my  hopes." 

"  She  loves  thee,  Philip  !  I  know  it,  if  I  know  anything  of  the 
heart  of  woman.  She  will  accept  thee,  my  friend,  and  thou  wilt 
be  happy !  But  should  she  refuse  thee  1" 

"  Then,  perchance,  thou  wilt  find  me  beside  thee  when  thou 
liftest  lance  against  the  Apalachian." 

"  I  could  almost  pray,  Philip,  that  she  should  send  thee  from 
her  with  the  blessing  of  Abaddon,  which  is  said  to  be  very  much 
like  a  curse !" 

And  he  grasped  vigorously  the  hand  of  his  friend.  They  sep- 
arated after  some  further  conversation,  and  Philip  retired  to  the 
recesses  of  his  humble  lodging. 

The  day  passed  slowly  to  our  knight  of  Portugal.     He  had 


THE   HOUR  OF   LOVE.  31o 

appointed  to  himself  the  afternoon  for  his  purposed  visit  to  Olivia. 
He  was  impatient  for  its  approach.  His  soul  was  teeming  with 
delicious  fancies.  Truly,  as  he  had  said  to  Nuno  de  Tobar,  he 
was  delivered  up  to  softer  influences  than  those  of  war.  The 
sweot  and  balmy  atmosphere  he  breathed,  grateful  though  ener- 
vating, contributed  to  the  gentle  reveries  of  the  lover !  The 
hour  chosen  for  his  visit  to  the  beloved  one  was  especially  ap- 
propriate to  such  an  object.  Nobody  who  has  not  felt,  can  pos- 
sibly conceive  of  the  balm  and  beauty-breathing  sweetness,  in 
such  a  climate,  of  the  hour  which  just  precedes  the  sunset;  when 
his  rays,  bright  without  heat,  stream  with  soft  beauty  through 
the  green  forests,  and  wrap  them  in  a  halo,  that  makes  them  as 
gloriously  sweet  as  golden.  There  is  a  delicious  mystery  to  the 
soul  that  delights  in  gentle  reveries  in  the  shadows  at  this  hour — 
in  the  smiling  glances  of  the  "sun,  when  he  suffuses  all  the  horizon 
with  the  warmest  flushes  of  orange,  green,  and  purple.  In  a 
region  where  the  excessive  heat  and  glare  of  his  light  at  noon  are 
ungrateful  to  the  eye  and  oppressive  to  the  frame,  the  day  neces- 
sarily offends,  even  at  early  morning ;  and  the  soul  necessarily 
sympathizes  with  its  several  agents,  even  as  one  spares  his  slave 
or  servant  the  task  which  exposes  him  to  pestilence  or  storm. 
Thus  the  spirits  sink  as  the  form  suffers.  The  sunset  hour  in 
the  same  region  redeems  the  day.  It  is  the  day — the  all  of  day 
that  the  eye  requires.  It  is  by  a  natural  instinct  that,  in  this 
region,  he  who  seeks  for  love  chooses  this  hour,  or  the  night 
which  is  lighted  by  a  moon,  for  his  purpose.  These  naturally 
suggest  themselves  in  all  climates  as  the  periods  when  the  heart 
may  go  forth  in  quest  of  its  kindred.  But  here,  these  are  the 
only  periods.  Nobody  could  find  eloquence  for  love-making  in 
Cuba  during  the  noonday.  No  damsel  would  believe  the  loy- 
alty of  the  heart  that  so  lacks  discretion  as  to  prefer  its  suit  at 
such  a  time.  The  day  is  obtrusive,  and  love  demands  secresy. 
It  is  a  thing  of  tremors  and  timidities.  It  haunts  the  shade.  It 
has  a  consciousness  of  something  in  its  quest  which  it  holds  quite 
too  sacred  for  exposure,  or  the  risk  of  exposure ;  and  as  it  only 
14 


314  VASCONSELOS. 

whispers  when  indifference  would  speak,  so  it  shrinks  and  hides 
when  audacity  and  pride  go  forth. 

The  delicious  softness  of  the  hour  sunk  deeply  into  hid  soul,  as 
Philip  de  Vasconselos  passed  into  the  shady  and  silent  defiles 
leading  through  the  thick  woods  which  girdled  the  hacienda  of 
the  lady  of  his  love.  The  sweet  light  from  the  slant  beams  of 
the  declining  sun  flitted  from  tree  to  tree  before  him,  like  the 
butterfly  wings  of  a  truant  fancy.  The  bright  droplets  fell, 
here  and  there,  through  the  groves,  tying  about  like  eyes  of  fairies, 
.peering  through  the  thick  grasses  along  the  slopes.  Philip's 
heart  was  fairly  open  to  fairy  eyes.  His  soul  warmed  and  was 
thawed  beneath  the  spells  of  that  winged  and  fanciful  sunlight. 
He  had  thrown  aside  all  the  restraints  which  held  him  in  check, 
through  policy  when  amid  the  crowd.  Here  was  solitude,  and 
silence,  and  the  shade  ; — and  the  pathway  led  to  love  ;  and  the 
smiles  of  heaven  were  upon  his  progress  !  His  step  was  free 
as  air  ;  his  soul  buoyant  with  hope  !  He  would  soon  feast  his 
eyes  upon  those  precious  features  of  the  beloved  one,  which 
seemed  to  them  to  make  a  heaven  of  the  place  where  they  in- 
habited !  And  the  great  shadows  gathered  behind  him  as  he  went ; 
and  the  trees  grew  motionless  ;  and  the  woods  ceased  to  breathe 
and  murmur  ;  and  the  silence  deepened  ;  and  the  pathways  dark- 
ened ;  and  all  was  harmony  and  security  !  These  transitions 
increased  the  sweetness  of  the  scene,  and  as  the  glances  of  the 
sunlight  grew  less  frequent,  they  seemed  brighter,  and  softer,  and 
more  tender  and  touching  in  the  eyes  of  the  lover.  Philip  went 
forward,  meeting  with  no  interruption.  He  passed  from  pathway 
to  pathway  along  a  route  well  known.  The  avenues  widened  : 
he  was  approaching  the  dwelling.  In  a  few  moments  he  would 
be  in  the  sight,  would  be  at  the  feet  of  her,  upon  whose  word 
hung  all  his  world  of  hope  and  fear.  Well  might  he  tremble 
with  the  increase  of  his  emotions.  What  heart  is  wholly  brave 
at  such  a  moment?  and  who  does  not  feel,  with  great  misgiving, 
that,  where  the  anticipation  is  so  pregnant  with  delicious  life, 
its  denial  and  defeat  must  bring  a  pang  far  greater  than  that  of 
death  1 


MATEO  REQUITES  A  FAVOR.  315 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  his  wildest  anticipations  and  most  trem- 
bling hopes,  that  Philip  was  suddenly  aroused  to  more  common 
associations,  by  the  appearance  of  a  man  suddenly  springing  out 
of  the  lemon  thicket  beside  him.  He  drew  back,  and  laid  hand 
upon  his  sword.  But  the  voice  of  the  stranger  reassured  him. 
It  was  that  of  the  outlaw  Mateo,  who  was  almost  breathless, 
evidently  greatly  excited,  his  eyes  dilated,  and  his  tones  trem- 
bling with  emotion. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  Senor.  I  am  not  your  enemy  !  I  am 
your  friend  !  You  have  done  me  service,  and  helped  me  to  es- 
cape from  my  enemies.  I  would  not  now  harm  a  hair  of  your 
head.  I  would  serve  you — ay,  do  you  good  service — would  save 
you  from  a  great  evil." 

"  What  evil  ?" 

"  Come  with  me  !  "  and  he  laid  his  hand  respectfully  upon  the 
knight's  arm,  as  if  to  conduct  him  forward. 

"  It  is  thither  I  am  going,"  said  Philip,  "  but  I  must  go  alone, 
my  good  fellow." 

"Yes,  you  must  go  alone  !  I  know  that.  But  you  were  going 
to  the  house.  She  is  not  there.  She  is  at  the  bower  in  the 
woods.  It  is  there  you  must  seek  her.  You  were  going — par- 
don me,  Senor, — to  declare  your  love  for  the  Sefiorita." 

"  How,  sirrah  !  " 

"  Pardon  me,  Senor,  I  say  again  ; — but  I  know  it ; — every 
body  in  Havana  expects  it.  I  mean  not  to  offend.  I  tell  you  I 
want  to  serve  you.  I  love  you  and  honor  you,  and  owe  you 
gratitude.  It  is  this  that  makes  me  say  what  Ido, — and  lead 
you  this  way.  You  must  not  make  love  to  the  Senorita.  She 
is  not  £br  you  Senor, — she  is  not  worthy  of  you  !  " 

"  How,  fellow  !     Do  not  provoke  me  to  anger  !  " 

"  Forgive  me,  Senor ;  but  give  me  time,  and  give  yourself 
time.  Just  come  with  me  now  ;  "  and  he  almost  dragged  him 
forward.  "  There, — into  that  avenue — follow  it — it  will  lead 
you  to  the  summer-house.  Go  forward — go  alone — go  quickly — 
but  go  softly — softly — say  nothing,  but  look  ; — see  !  Then,  if 


316  VASCONSELOS. 

you  will, — tell  the  Senorita  that  you  love  her — that  you  come  to 
make  her  your  wife  !  " 

There  was  something  in  all  this  proceeding  which  was  so  earn- 
est and  so  startling,  that,  though  it  offended  the  proud  knight  be- 
cause of  the  freedom  of  the  outlaw's  manner,  he  did  not  feel  like 
showing  anger.  Indeed,  he  was  too  much  startled,  too  sensibly 
impressed  with  a  nameless  terror,  to  be  altogether  conscious  of 
the  extent  of  the  liberty  which  Mateo  had  taken.  He  fancied 
that  Olivia  was  in  danger,  and  vague  notions  of  serpents  and 
tigers  rose  before  his  imagination.  Intuitively,  he  obeyed  his 
tutor,  and  darted  into  the  alley. 

"  Softly,  softly  ! "  cried  the  outlaw,  following  close  behind. 
In  a  few  moments  he  reached  the  summer-house. 

"  Go  up  the  steps — in — the  Senorita  is  there.  Go — look — • 
see  ;  but  softly,  very  softly,  and  do  not  speak !  " 

Philip  obeyed,  and  ascended  the  steps  of  the  verandah ;  the 
curtains  were  lifted ;  he  disappeared  among  the  columns,  and 
Mateo  waited  without,  among  the  groves.  He  had  not  long  to 
wait.  Scarcely  had  Philip  disappeared  from  his  sight,  when  his 
form  was  again  seen,  emerging  from  among  the  columns.  A 
single  hollow  groan  escaped  him.  Mateo  darted  forward  to 
meet  hiin,  and  the  knight  staggered  down  the  steps,  almost  fall- 
ing into  his  arms.  The  outlaw  hurried  him  into  the  thicket. 

"  Quickly,  quickly  !  "  said  he. — "  He  will  have  heard  that 
groan." 

Philip  staggered  away,  without  offering  opposition.  His  head 
swam  ;  his  knees  tottered  beneath  him. 

"  I  am  very  faint !  "  said  he. 

"  Rest  here,"  answered  the  outlaw,  conducting  him  to  a  wooden 
seat  enveloped  in  shrubbery,  and  almost  forcing  him  down  upon 
it,  while  he  plucked  an  orange  from  the  shrub-tree  above  him, 
aai  in  a  second  laid  its  rich  juices  open  with  a  knife. 

"  No  ! "  exclaimed  Philip,  after  a  pause,  rejecting  the  orange, 
and  staggpring  up  from  the  seat — "  I  cannot  rest  here,  or  any 
where  !  Let  us  away  !  away  from  this  place  ! " 


THE  SPELL  BROKEN.  317 

"You  have  seen?" 

"  No  more  !  Do  not  ask  me ; "  an'd  the  knight  of  Portugal 
covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands. 

"  Stay  for  a  moment !  "  said  the  outlaw — "  while  I  go  back, 
and  give  him  this ! "  and  he  lifted  his  huge  ma,(  hete  as  he  spoke, 
and  looked  the  matador  about  to  strike. 

"  No  ! "  hastily  answered  the  knight, — laying  his  hand  upon 
the  arm  of  the  outlaw.  "  It  must  not  be  !  Put  up  your  knife. 
What  is  it  to  us  1  what  is  it  to  us  ?  Let  us  go  hence  ! " 

And  he  started  forward,  blindly,  and  once  more  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  summer-house. 

"  That  is  not  the  way  !     That  leads  you  back " 

With  a  shudder,  Philip  wheeled  about,  and  hurried  off  in  the 
opposite  direction ;  the  outlaw  following  him  respectfully,  and  in 
silence.  In  the  same  silence  they  wound  their  way  through  the 
thickets  of  lemon  and  orange.  When  they  approached  the  verge 
of  the  estate,  Mateo  stopped  suddenly  : — 

"I  must  go  no  further.  Here  I  must  leave  you,  Senor.  I 
must  not  risk  exposure." 

Philip  grasped  his  hand. 

"  Thanks,  my  good  fellow,  thanks  !  I  have  nothing  more  to 
give.  You  have  done  me  good  service  ;  but  at  what  expense — 
what  suffering ! " 

"  Could  it  be  otherwise,  Senor  ?  " 

"  No !  I  thank  you.  It  is  well !  you  have  saved  me  from  a 
great  misery,  by  giving  me  a  great  hurt.  I  would  I  had  the 
means  to  reward  you.  But  I  thank  you  !  I  thank  you  !  "  and  he 
groaned  heavily. 

"  I  ask  no  reward,  Senor.  I  am  only  too  happy  to  serve  yo".. 
I  wish  I  could  serve  you  forever.  I  feel  that  I  could  work  for 
you,  and  for  any  true  man  like  you  !  But  I  can't  work  for  a  bad 
one.  and  a  beast !  I  would  be  happy  to  go  with  you  to  Florida., 
But  there,  Don  Balthazar  would  know  me  through  any  disguises. 
And  yet,  I  might  get  over  that.  Let  me  go  now,  Senor." 

And  a  new  impulse  seemed  to  seize  upon  the  outlaw,  the  ex- 


318  VASCONSELOS. 

pression  in  his  face  declaring,  as  fully  as  words,  the  renewed 
purpose  in  his  mind. 

"  No !  not  till  you  promise  me  you  will  do  nothing  in  this 
matter.  I  see  what  you  mean.  But,  if  you  slay  him,  you  expose 
her  !  Let  him  live.  You  cannot  go  with  me  to  Florida.  I  know 
not  that  I  shall  go  myself.  Stay  where  you  are.  Get  back 
to  your  mountains.  But,  as  you  live,  and  as  you  love  me,  breathe 
not  a  syllable  of  this  !  Farewell !" 

With  these  words,  and  having  received  the  outlaw's  promise, 
Philip  de  Vasconselos  turned  away. 

"  It  is  gone  !"  he  murmured  to  himself  as  he  went.  "  It  is 
gone,  the  hope,  the  brightness,  and  the  joy  !  all  gone  !  Oh  !  Jesu ! 
what  a  ruin  !"  and  he  again  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  as 
if  to  shut  out  a  spectacle  of  horror.  "  Oh !  would  that  I  had  the 
monster  in  a  fair  field,  with  only  sword  and  dagger  !" 

Thus  exclaiming,  he  disappeared  from  sight.  Mateo  sank  back 
into  covert,  and  soon  he  heard  the  voice  of  Juana  in  the  thicket. 
He  suffered  her  to  approach  him.  She  had  followed  the  steps 
of  her  brother  and  the  knight.  She  had  seen  them  as  they  left 
the  summer-house,  upon  which  it  would  seem  that  she,  also,  had 
been  keeping  watch. 

"  What  have  you  seen,  Juana  ?"  demanded  the  outlaw  sternly. 

"  All !" 

"  Ah !  all !     You  do  not  mean  that " 

"Yes!  Isaw  when  you  and  Don  Philip  went  towards  the  sum- 
mer-house. I  was  in  the  thicket.  When  the  knight  of  Portugal 
came  down  tin*  steps  and  groaned  so  loud,  it  roused  Don  Bal- 
thazar. He  came  out  soon  after  you,  and  looked  about  him,  and 
I  lay  close.  But,  seeing  nothing,  he  went  back  again." 

"  Well !  what's  done  can't  be  undone ;  but  look  you,  Juana,  if 
you  whisper  a  word  of  this  to  anybody,  I'll  slit  your  tongue. 
Do  you  hear  now  ?  Well !  remember ;  I  am  just  the  man  to  do 
what  I  promise,  though  you  are  my  own  sister." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

"  I've  done  my  journey  here;  my  day  i?  out  ; 
All  that  the  world  han  else,  is  foolery, 
Labor  and  loss  of  time.     What  should  I  live  for?" 

BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 

*'  WHAT  remains,  but  that  I  should  seek  Florida  —  seek  the 
wilderness-—  thesolitude  —  thestrife!  —  forget  —  forget!  Oh!  Lethe, 
would  thou  wert  not  a  fable  !" 

Such  were  the  muttered  exclamations  of  Philip  de  Vasconse- 
los,  as  he  went,  almost  blindly  forward,  on  his  way  to  his  lowly 


"  It  is  all  over  !  all  blasted  !  The  dream  —  the  too  precious 
dream  !  Jesu  !  that  it  should  end  thus  !  How  should  it  be  so  ! 
How  should  she  —  so  fair,  so  gentle,  so  seeming  pure  and  an- 
gelic !  —  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  It  is  not  wonderful  !  It  is  a  truth  — 
an  experience  old  as  the  hills  !  When  came  the  tempter  ever, 
save  in  garments  of  an  angel  of  light  !  It  is  the  one  power 
which  he  possesses,  over  all  others,  of  seeming,  to  mortal  eyes, 
the  thing  he  is  most  unlike  !  And  how  nearly  had  I  fallen  into 
the  snare  !  How  blind,  neither  to  see  nor  to  suspect  !  But  for 
this  outlaw  —  this  slave  —  I  had  been  a  lost  man  —  sold  to  a  delu- 
sion —  expending  my  soul  upon  a  phantom  —  laying  my  best 
affections  in  tribute  upon  an  altar  which  devotes  them  all  to 
shame  !  Yet,  I  cannot  thank  him  !  He  hath,  at  a  word,  in  a  mo- 
ment, by  a  spell,  robbed  me  of  the  one  glad,  joyous  vision  of 
my  life  !  I  had  but  one  hope,  and  he  hath  destroyed  it  !  I  knew 
but  one  desire,  and  he  hath  made  it  death  !  What  now  should 
I  live  for  1  Of  what  avail  that  I  am  young,  and  fearless,  and 
skilled  in  arms,  and  all  noble  exercises  ?  The  motive  for  per- 
formance is  gone,  and  the  life  goes  with  it.  All  is  a  blank  be- 

319 


S20  VASCONSELOS. 

fore  me ;  all  cheerless,  all  bitterness ;  a  long  waste  of  darkness 
and  denial !" 

And  he  threw  himself  down  hopelessly  by  the  way-side. 
Darkness  had  settled  down  ;  but  the  stars  were  coming  out,  si- 
lently and  palely,  looking  like  the  spectres  of  past  pleasures. 
The  distant  lights  of  the  city  were  present  to  his  eyes  also.  There 
were  torches  flaming  upon  the  farthest  hills,  and  pyres  were  burn- 
ing before  booths  and  camps,  from  which  rose  faintly,  at  inter- 
vals, the  sounds  of  merriment.  Gay  laughter  and  shouts,  he 
heard,  or  fancied,  rising  from  rustic  groups  engaged  in  the  fan- 
dango ;  and  anon,  but  more  faintly,  he  caught  the  tinkle  of  a 
guitar  rising  from  some  bohio  or  cottage,  in  the  contiguous  hol- 
low of  the  hills. 

"  They  laugh !  they  shout !  they  sing ;  as  if  there  were  not 
a  shadow  upon  the  earth — as  if  guilt  and  shame  had  not  fouled 
the  fairest  aspect  under  heaven  !  Jesu,  to  be  so  beautiful  and 
sweet  to  the  eye — to  acquire  such  power,  through  sunniest  charms, 
over  the  soul,  and  yet  to  fail  in  the  one  great  virtue  which  alone 
makes  all  dear  things  precious  to  the  heart !  But,  is  it  so  ]  Is 
it  true  1  Have  I  not  been  deceived  1  Am  I  not  betrayed  by 
treachery  and  cunning  1  May  it  not  all  be  a  delusion  of  the 
senses  1  Is  it  sure  that  it  was  she  1  Did  not  mine  eyes  deceive 
me  ;  and,  while  there  is  a  doubt,  shall  I  give  faith  to  an  assurance 
so  terrible — so  revolting — so  fatal  to  the  loveliest  work  of  heav- 
en !  It  was  dusk^the  woods  were  thick — the  sunbeams  did  not 
pierce  them — the  curtains  hung  around,  darkening  the  chamber! 
— there  was  a  woman,  but  is  it  certain  that  she  was  Olivia — my 
Olivia!  the  pure,  the  proud,  the  beautiful  1  Was  I  not  too  ready 
to  believe  the  accursed  suggestion  of  the  outlaw  ;  was  there  no 
contrivance  for  my  ruin — for  her  ruin  ?  What  if  I  return  and  see ; 
and,  if  it  be  true,  what  should  keep  me  from  slaying  him,  at 
least,  and  looking  her  to  stone  with  eyes  of  scornfulness  and 
hate !" 

But  he  did  not  rise.  He  could  not  doubt.  He  could  not  de- 
lude himself  into  the  thought  that  what  he  had  seen  was  a  mere 
delusion  of  the  senses.  It  was  too  true — too  real — and  the  more 


THE   STRONG   MAN'S  GRIEF.  321 

he  strove  to  dispel  the  conviction,  the  more  it  grew  to  strength, 
and  took  possession  of  his  soul ;  filling  it  with  a  nameless  and 
indescribable  horror.     For  an  hour  he  lay  thus  upon  the  earth, 
delivered  to  despair.     There  was  no  refuge  for  hope  in  thought, 
and   he  lay  brooding,  with  an  aimless  mind,  and  an  agonized 
spirit.     At  last,  he  rose.     The  strong  man  rarely  sinks  below  a 
certain  point.     He  may  be  overwhelmed,  like  the  weakest,  by  a 
shock,  at  once  terrible,  revolting,  and  unexpected  :  but  the  heart 
gathers  its  forces  after  a  season,  and  nature  compels  the  proper 
efforts  for  her  own  recovery  and  repose.     The  grief  may  remain, 
but  it  does  not  overcome.     It  may  prove  a  lasting  blight  to  the 
hope,  the  fancy,  the  affections ;  but  there  is  a  calm   resolution 
which  enables  the  sufferer-to  live  and  to  perform  ;  for  perform 
ance  is,  beyond  all  other  things,  the  natural  law,  and  the  neces- 
sity of  the  true  man  ;  and  even  the. sorrow,  which  wounds  and 
blights  the  heart,  serves  to  strengthen  the  noble  courage  and  the 
indomitable  will.      Philip  de  Vasconselos  rose  from   the  earth 
at  last.     He  had  become  somewhat  more  composed.     His  will 
and  character  were  beginning  to  assert  themselves.     He  was  still 
the  master  of  himself ' !     He  rose  and  went  forward,  sadly,  slow- 
ly, but  resolutely  ;  endeavoring,  with  all  the  calm  he  could  com- 
mand, to  shape  the  course  for  his  progress  in  the  future.     This 
was  soon  decided  in  his  mind. 

The  lights  of  the  city  grew  before  his  eyes.  The  torches  and 
camp-fires,  along  the  hills  that  skirted  the  city,  became  more 
glaring,  and  cast  their  great  red  shadows  upon  his  path.  The 
voices  of  merriment,  the  songs,  the  shouts,  the  joyous  cries  and 
laughter,  with  the  tinkle  of  pleasant  instruments,  became  louder 
and  more  frequent  on  his  ear.  Suddenly,  his  eye  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  long,  temporary  structure,  of  poles,  covered  with 
palm  branches,  and  the  broad  leaves  of  other  trees,  in  which  the 
knights  were  revelling  at  the  last  festivities  of  the  Adelantado. 

"  What  remains,"  murmured  Philip,  '•  but  that  I  go  with  this 

expedition  ?     What  matters  it  to  me,  now  that  I  am  no  favorite  ? 

I  ask  no  favors.     There  are  blows  and  danger  to  be  encountered 

among  the  Apalachian,  and  he  who  is  armed  as  I  am  now,  against 

14* 


322  VASCOXSELOS. 

all  terrors,  can  make  himself  a  favorite,  by  making  himself  fear 
ful.  What  better  region  in  which  to  bury  my  sorrows,  and 
hide  my  anguish  from  vulgar  eyes  ?  Where  can  I  more  surely 
escape  from  this  agony  of  thought  ?  In  the  fierce  strife,  there 
will  be  forgetfulness  ;  and  forgetfulness  will  be  the  most  precious 
of  hopes,  even  though  it  comes  only  through  the  embrace  with 
death.  I  will  go  with  Nuno !" 

Under  this  new  impulse,  he  hurried  forward  rapidly  towards 
the  scene  of  festivity,  as  if  fearing  to  trust  himself  to  think  further 
upon  the  subject  of  his  progress.  It  was  not  long  before  he 
reached  the  place ;  the  shouts  from  within,  the  music,  assailing 
his  ears  with  a  sense  of  pain,  without,  however,  impairing  his 
resolution  to  join  the  revellers, — to  engage  in  their  expedition. 

The  structure  in  which  the  Adelantado  and  his  Floridian  chivalry 
held  their  feast  was,  as  we  have  said,  a  rude,  simple  fabric,  de- 
signed only  for  the  temporary  purpose.  It  consisted  of  slender 
shafts,  green  trees  freshly  cut,  and  thatched  with  bamboo  and 
fresh  bushes.  It  was  fantastically  adorned  in  a  style  which  the 
climate,  and  productions  of  the  country  naturally  suggested  to  the 
eye  of  taste.  The  flag  of  Spain,  the  banners  of  De  Soto,  and  of 
the  several  captains,  were  disposed  happily  around  the  apart- 
ment. Green  leaves  and  gorgeous  flowers  were  wreathed  about 
the  columns,  declaring  visibly  the  wealth  of  the  delicious  region 
of  which  they  were  the  natural  tribute.  Fruits  in  gay  festoons 
hung  down  within  reach  from  the  rafters  :  the  luscious  pine,  the 
mellow  banana,  the  juicy  and  fragrant  orange.  Of  the  provis- 
ion for  the  feast,  it  will  be  much  easier  for  the  reader  to  imag- 
ine than  for  us  to  describe.  Enough  that  the  Adelantado  and  the 
knights  of  the  expedition  had  done  their  best  to  requite  the  hos- 
pitalities of  the  Islanders  in  a  fashion  worthy  of  their  own.  They 
had  expended  no  small  part  of  the  treasures  remaining  from  theii 
outfit,  in  doing  the  honors  gallantly  and  with  becoming  ostenta- 
tion. They  not  only  provided,  as  it  was  the  custom  of  the  gen- 
try of  the  city  and  country  to  provide,  but  they  studiously  pro- 
cured dishes  such  as  they  had  merely  heard  described,  and  fancied 
others,  the  better  to  outdo  description — "  Exhausted  cates,  and  then 


THE   FEAST.  323 

imagined  new."  The  turtle,  fresh  from  the  sea,  furnished  the  only 
soup, — a  first  course,  which  was  served  up  in  the  uncouth  mon- 
ster's own  shell ;  game  and  domestic  poultry,  including  doves 
from  the  cote ;  young  peacocks,  their  plumage  artfully  disposed 
about  the  birds  after  they  were  made  ready  by  the  cook  for  the 
table,  so  .as  almost  to  represent  the  living  creature,  his  gay 
streamers  of  green,  and  purple,  and  gold,  looking  as  bright  and  fairy- 
like  as  when  he  unfolds  them  to  sight,  strutting  and  spreading 
himself  abroad  from  court  and  verandah.  Some  dishes  were  pre- 
pared formed  wholly  of  the  tongues  of  singing  birds ;  and  we 
may  add,  were  eaten  with  an  appetite  such  as  might  be  assumed 
to  originate  only  with  a  hope  to  win  the  musical  powers  of  the 
member  thus  hushed  forever.  The  unripened  plantain  was 
sliced  and  browned  in  sugar  by  the  fire ;  or,  roasted,  was  macer- 
ated with  the  inspissated  juices  of  the  cane.  This  course,  by  the 
way,  was  preceded  by-  one  consisting  wholly  of  sea  and  shell-fish, 
and  was  succeeded  by  fruits  of  more  than  twenty  kinds,  all  na- 
tives of  the  island.  Fresh  guayavas,  fragrant  ananas,  bananas 
and  sapadillos,  yielded  themselves  to  delighted  palates  in  deli- 
cious sympathy  with  wines  of  Xeres,  which  had  already  began  to 
circulate  with  potency  before  Philip  de  Vasconselos  entered  the 
assembly. 

He  entered  at  a  moment  when  De  Soto  was  addressing  his 
audience.  The  Spanish  language  is  one  of  equal  grandeur  and 
beauty  ;  the  Spanish  character  is  necessarily  one  of  ambition  and 
hyperbole.  The  language  of  a  people  usually  declares  for  its 
character  in  its  best  days.  We  know  from  other  histories  how 
a  language  may  exhibit  more  vitality  than  a  people ;  how  glori- 
ously it  survives  them.  A  language,  known  through  its  literature, 
is  perhaps  the  only  durable  monument  of  a  people.  De  Soto, 
as  is  well  known,  was  an  accomplished  cavalier,  greatly  distin- 
guished at  a  period  when  Spain  could  claim  a  host  of  heroes.  It 
is  not  so  well  known  that  he  was  an  accomplished  speaker, 
thoroughly  master  of  the  arts  of  language,  versed  in  its  delica- 
cies, and  practised  in  all  its  graces.  His  audience  listened  to  him 
with  ecstasy,  and  rounded  his  sentences  with  their  vivas  and 


324  VASCONSELOS. 

bravas.  He  dwelt  upon  that  superiority  of  character  which  ex- 
ulted  in  adventure.  The  art  of  war,  he  contended,  and  its  pros- 
ecution in  new  lands,  was,  perhaps,  the  very  noblest  and  most 
god-like  of  all  human  arts.  He  spoke  of  the  greatness  of  his 
nation,  as  particularly  renowned  for  the  use  of  this  art,  in  its  most 
inspiring  exercises.  He  painted  fame  and  glory,  brightly  and 
purely,  and  grandly,  as  they  appear  always  to  youth  and  enterprise, 
and  dwelt  upon  the  progresses  of  Cortez  and  Pizarro  in  Mexico 
and  Peru — subjects,  hi  hearing  the  report  of  which,  the  Castilian 
ear  could  never  tire.  By  a  natural  transition  he  came  to  speak 
of  their  present  adventure  in  the  wilds  of  Florida.  He  did  not 
disparage  the  valor  of  the  red  men  of  Apalachia,  nor  seek  to  lessen 
the  picture  of  danger  which  he  drew  as  a  necessary  consequence  of 
the  enterprise ;  but  he  insisted  upon  the  utter  impossibility  of  any 
valor  of  the  red-men  as  able  to  stand  for  a  moment  before  such 
warriors  as  he  led  to  the  encounter.  He  particularly  dwelt  upon  the 
great  treasures  of  the  country,  its  glorious  cities  hidden  in  the  bosom 
of  mighty  mountains  ;  its  treasures  of  gold  and  silver  j  its  pearls 
to  be  gathered  hi  heaps  along  its  shores ;  arguments  which,  he 
well  knew,  were  beyond  all  others,  in  persuading  young  ambi- 
tion and  greedy  avarice  to  his  banners.  At  the  close,  seeing 
Philip  de  Vasconselos  enter,  he  took  the  opportunity  of  throwing 
out  a  few  bitter  sarcasms  upon  the  timid,  the  laggard,  the  weak, 
the  souls  deficient  in  true  courage  and  noble  enterprise,  who  hung 
back  when  an  occasion  so  glorious  was  offered  to  their  eyes. 

The  glances  of  the  assembly  followed  those  of  the  Adelantado, 
and  rested  upon  the  flushed  countenance  of  Philip.  He  saw  the 
direction  given  to  the  words  of  De  Soto,  and  felt  the  purpose  of 
the  latter  to  inflict  a  sting  upon  his  pride  and  heart.  He  rose 
proudly  when  the  Adelantado  had  finished,  and  looked  sternly 
around  the  assembly.  It  was  surprising  how  composed  he  was. 
He  appeared  fully  to  have  recovered  himself,  and  though  very 
grave,  as  the  occasion  seemed  to  require,  he  was  quite  as  firm 
and  calm  as  if  he  labored  under  no  other  provocation  than  that 
which  he  had  just  received.  Never  was  individual  less  daunted  by 
the  circumstances  in  which  he  stood.  He  saw  that  there  was  dis- 


PHILIP'S  DEFENCE.  325 

satisfaction — certainly  constraint — in  the  faces  of  nearly  all  around 
him  ;  reflecting  that  in  the  countenance  of  the  Adelantado,  who 
si-aively  acknowledged,  with  a  stately  bend  of  the  head,  the 
measured  but  courteous  approach  of  our  hero,  and  the  deepening 
shadows  upon  whose  brow  argued  no  friendly  welcome  for  What 
he  might  say.  But  Philip  was  little  moved  by  these  unfriendly  au- 
spices. He  respected  De  Soto  as  a  brave  and  noble  cavalier, 
distinguished  equally  by  talents  and  graces,  and  high  in  favor  of 
his  sovereign ;  but  his  respect  and  admiration  were  not  so  pro- 
found as  to  cause  him  to  suffer  any  mortification  from  the  loss  of 
his  favoring  countenance.  He  advanced  towards  the  dais  which 
had  been  assigned  to  the  Adelantado,  raising  him  a  little  above 
the  rest  of  the  assembly, — passing  through  the  crowd  with  exceed- 
ingly deliberate  pace,  until  he  stood  but  a  few  paces  from  the 
person  he  addressed. 

"Your  Excellency,"  said  he,  "has  been  pleased  to  indulge  in 
certain  remarks  of  censure  upon  that  unambitious,  unperforming 
and  timid  class,  who,  bred  to  arms,  are  yet  reluctant  to  engage 
in  the  honorable  adventure  to  which  you  invite  them.  I  cannot 
deceive  myself  as  to  the  fact,  that  certain  in  this  assembly 
are  disposed  to  make  these  remarks  applicable  to  the  person 
who  now  addresses  you.  I  trust  it  is  not  necessary  to  say 
here  that  for  any  one  who  would  impute  to  me  the  want  of 
courage,  I  have  but  a  single  answer,  and  that  lies  at  the  point  of 
my  weapon ;  be  it  lance,  or  sword,  battle-axe,  or  dagger.  I  am 
ready  to  encounter  any  questioner.  That  I  have  been  slow  in 
resolving  to  accompany  this  expedition,  has  been  no  fault  of 
mine.  I  came  hither  from  my  own  land  for  this  very  purpose ; 
and  until  I  reached  Havana,  I  knew  no  disposition  to  change  my 
determination.  It  will  be  admitted,  I  think,  that  the  encourage- 
ments offered  to  me  for  this  adventure,  however,  have  been  very 
few;  and,  perhaps,  were  I  to  say  the  truth,  I  should  describe  the 
course  taken  with  me  as  designed  specially  to  rebuke  the  pre- 
sumption which  had  prompted  me  to  seek  a  place  under  the 
banner  of  Castile." 


326  VASCONSELOS. 

"  Not  so,  Senor,  not  so,  by  God !"  exclaimed  De  Soto,  inter- 
rupting him  energetically. 

"  Be  this  as  it  may,  your  Excellency,  it  is  one  of  those  things 
upon  which  I  do  not  dwell ;  for,  to  me,  war  and  adventure  carry 
their  own  encouragements;  and  it  is  found,  always  in  the  time 
of  danger,  that  no  one's  sword  is  amiss  that  does  good  service 
on  our  side.  I  have  no  fear  that  in  the  day  of  trial,  I  shall  fail 
to  prove  my  right  to  be  present  where  blows  are  given  and 
received.  Encouragement  I  need  not, — discouragement  will 
never  chill  my  enterprise  or  lessen  my  strength.  That  I  hesi- 
tated to  engage  under  your  banner  when  I  came  here  was  due  to 
other  influences,  which " 

De  Soto  smiled  grimly.  Philip  saw  the  smile,  and  his  face 
was  suddenly  flushed  with  crimson. 

"  But  it  matters  not,"  he  proceeded,  "  to  say  wherefore  I  hesi- 
tated to  declare  my  purpose.  It  will  suffice,  your  Excellency, 
to  say  that  I  am  now  prepared,  if  permitted,  to  accompany  your 
expedition  to  the  country  of  the  Apalachian — a  country  which  I 
somewhat  know  already — a  people  with  whom  I  have  already 
had  fierce  as  well  as  amicable  intercourse, — and  among  whom,  it 
may  be  found,  that  my  presence  shall  work  for  good  to  your 
Excellency's  enterprise." 

This  said,  Philip  de  Vasconselos  bowed  courteously,  and 
calmly  wheeling  about,  made  his  way  back  to  the  place  where 
he  had  entered  the  apartment.  The  Adelantado — the  audience — 
was  taken  completely  by  surprise.  Nothing  could  have  been 
more  unexpected  to  all  ears.  De  Soto  spoke  in  reply  approv- 
ingly, and  with  warm  compliment.  Other  voices  followed  with 
the  same  burden.  But  Philip  neither  heard  nor  listened.  He 
was  making  his  way  out,  when  his  hand  was  suddenly  seized  by 
that  of  his  brother  Andres. 

"  Brother !"  was  all  that  the  latter  said. 

"Andres,  my  brother!"  exclaimed  Philip,  throwing  his  arm 
around  the  neck  of  the  youth,  while  a  sudden  gush  of  tears  from 
overfulJ  fountains  blinded  his  eyes.  No  more  was  said  between 


.THE   SUDDEN   RESOLVE.  327 

them.  Such  was  their  reconciliation.  The  speech  of  Philip  had 
taught  Andres — strangely  enough — that  the  passion  of  his  brother 
for  Olivia  de  Alvaro  had  proved  as  fruitless  as  his  own.  Why1? 
This  was  the  mystery  which  none  could  solve.  Philip  tore  him- 
self away  from  the  brief  embrace,  and  was  hurrying  out,  when 
Nuno  de  Tobar  rushed  up,  and,  warmed  with  wine,  caught  him 
exultingly  in  his  arms. 

"  But  how  is  all  this,  Philip  7" 

At  that  moment  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro  suddenly  entered, 
and  was  passing  very  near  them.  Instinctively,  Philip  grasped 
the  handle  of  his  sword,  and  his  eyes  were  fastened  upon  the 
uncle  of  Olivia,  with  such  an  expression  as  made  the  latter  start, 
as  at  the  approach  of  a  famished  tiger.  Philip  recovered  him- 
self in  a  moment,  turned  away  from  the  face  of  him  whom  he 
longed  to  destroy,  and  was  followed  out  by  Nuno  into  the  open 
air. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  the  latter,  "  how  comes  this  change  7" 

"  Do  not  ask  me,  Nuno ;  enough  that  I  go  with  you." 

"  Holy  Mother,  but  your  looks,  Philip " 

"  Heed  them  not — heed  me  not — let  me  leave  you,  Nuno,  1 
am  not  fit  for  this  assembly." 

"  But  you  have  been  to  see  Olivia — you  have  seen  her  7" 

"I  have  seen  her  !" 

"  And  she  refused  you  7" 

"  No  ! — I  have  not  spoken  with  her." 

"  Seen  her — but  not  spoken ! — What !  Your  courage  failed 
you  at  the  last  moment — you  had  not  the  heart  7" 

"  I  had  not  the  heart !" 

"  Jesu  !  man  !     What  weakness  is  this  7" 

"  No  weakness  !  No  more,  Nuno.  There  is  that  which  puts 
an  eternal  barrier  between  Olivia  de  Alvaro  and  myself — a  bar- 
rier deep  as  the  grave,  impassable  as  hell.  I  can  tell  you  nothing. 
You  but  distress  me  when  you  ask — ask  nothing.  From  this 
moment  name  her  not  to  me,  Nuno,  unless  you  would  make  me 
j  our  foe  for  ever !" 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

"  Cenci.    Speak,  pale  slave  I  what  said  she  ? 

Andrea.     My  Lord,  'twas  what  she  look'd.    She  said : 
•Go,  tell  my  father  that  I  see  the  gulf 
Of  Hell  between  us  two,  which  he  may  pass  ; 
I  will  not,'  " 

SHELLEY.— The  Cenci. 

DON  BALTHAZAR  was  greatly  surprised  by  what  he  heard  in  the 
assembly,  of  the  declared  purpose  of  Philip  de  Vasconselos  to 
accompany  the  expedition.  It  was  a  surprise  to  everybody — 
how  much  more  to  him !  Such  unexpected  good  fortune  was 
hardly  to  be  hoped  for.  The  danger,  now,  of  a  suitor  to  his 
niece,  so  likely  to  be  successful,  no  longer  threatened  him.  At 
the  first  moment  when  he  learned  the  fact,  he  felt  an  exhilar- 
ating sense  of  triumph.  But  soon  he  asked  himself,  how  was  so 
sudden  a  change  wrought  in  the  purposes  and  feelings  of  the 
knight  of  Portugal  ?  But  a  day  before,  he  was  known  to  be 
eager  and  determined  in  his  purpose  to  address  Olivia.  His 
hope  of  success  was  good,  and  every  voice  encouraged  the  prose- 
cution of  his  suit.  Why  the  change  in  his  purpose  ]  That 
Philip  had  not  addressed  his  niece,  Don  Balthazar  was  quite  cer- 
tain. That  they  had  no  interview,  he  was  assured.  That  she 
had  received  no  written  communication  he  was  equally  confident. 
It  was  clear  that  Philip,  without  testing  his  hopes  at  all,  had  sud- 
denly abandoned  them.  Wherefore?  The  question  began  to 
stagger  the  inquirer.  Guilt  is  always  a  thing  of  terror,  and  the 
discovery  of  such  guilt  as  that  of  Don  Balthazar,  was  doubly 
terrible  to  the  conscious  fears  within  his  bosom.  He  now  saw 
the  significance  of  that  look  which  Philip  had  cast  upon  him  as 
he  came  into  the  assembly,  and  readily  divined  the  mystery 
which  puzzled  all  other  persons. 

328 


THE   GUILTY  CO^*SCIENCE.  329 

"  He  has  discovered  all  !"  was  his  secret  thought.  "  Yet  how  ?" 
Here  was  the  farther  difficulty.  "  What  was  the  discovery  which 
Philip  had  made  V  ''  To  what  degree  was  he  committed  by  it?" 
His  anxieties  increased  with  his  unuttered  inquiries,  addressed  to 
himself.  But  Don  Balthazar  had  a  rare  faculty  of  self-conceal- 
ment. His  secretiveness  was  a  large  development  in  his  moral 
organization.  He  could  smile,  and  look  calmly  about  him,  and 
engage  in  the  frivolous  conversation  of  society, — in  all  the 
business  of  the  crowd — seemingly  unmoved, — while  the  vultures 
of  doubt,  and  dread,  and  conscience,  were  all  at  work  tearing  at 
his  vitals.  He  joined  in  the  talk  going  on  in  the  assembly.  In 
this  way  he  might  obtain  some  clues  to  the  secret  of  Philip. 
But  he  learned  nothing  satisfactory.  One  fact,  however,  he 
gathered  from  all  that  was  said,  which  seemed  to  weigh  upon  his 
thoughts  ;  and  that  only  related  to  the  sudden  s  ppearance  of  the 
knight  of  Portugal,  at  a  late  hour,  in  fact  not  many  minutes  be- 
fore himself.  "  Where  had  he  been  till  that  hour  ?"  While  ask- 
ing himself  this  question,  Nuno  de  Tobar  reappeared  within  the 
circle.  "  I  will  sound  him  .'"  was  the  unexpressed  resolution  of 
the  Don,  as  he  sauntered  around,  gradually  winding  his  way 
towards  the  place  where  Nuno  had  taken  his  seat.  The  counte- 
nance of  the  latter  was  troubled.  His  mind  was  in  some  confu 
sion,  as  well  from  the  wine  he  had  taken,  as  from  the  conference 
with  Philip.  But  the  approach  of  Don  Balthazar  served,  in  some 
degree,  to  steady  his  intellect,  and  make  him  cautious.  He  knew 
that  Olivia's  uncle  had  been  hostile  to  his  friend.  It  had  not  es- 
caped the  notice  of  Nuno,  that  the  glance  with  which  Philip  had 
met  Don  Balthazar,  but  a  few  moments  before,  was  that  of  a  de- 
termined, if  not  a  savage  hatred.  Sympathizing  earnestly  with 
his  friend,  Nuno  shared,  in  some  degree,  his  hostile  sentiments. 
He  had  himself  never  been  the  friend  of  Don  Balthazar,  and 
was  now  more  than  ever  disposed  to  regard  him  as  an  enemy. 
In  some  way,  he  felt  assured  that  the  present  sufferings  of  Vas- 
conselos,  and  his  abandonment  of  Olivia,  were  due  to  the  evil  in- 
fluence of  her  uncle. 

Thus  feeling,  he  was  sobered  by  the  approach  of  the  Don ; 


330  VASCONSELOS. 

made  reserved  and  cautious ;  as  the  good  soldier  is  apt  to  feel 
when  in  an  enemy's  country,  and  marching  through  a  region 
proper  for  snares  and  ambuscades.  Besides,  by  prudent  manage- 
ment, might  he  not  find  out  something  in  respect  to  this  mystery  ? 
Don  Balthazar  probably  knew  the  cause  of  Philip's  conduct. 
There  might  have  been  an  open  rupture  between  them  : — Don 
Balthazar,  like  Philip,  had  been  absent  from  the  festivities  until  a 
late  hour.  They  had  reached  the  assembly  at  nearly  the  same 
time.  Might  not  their  mutual  absence,  and  arrival,  have  been 
due  to  a  common  cause  ?  Nuno  determined  to  search  this  mat- 
ter. He  would  probe  the  inquirer.  His  mind  co-operating  with 
his  feelings  and  his  instincts,  became  cool,  searching  and  vigilant, 
and  Don  Balthazar  extracted  nothing  from  him.  That  he  was  as 
.little  successful  in  penetrating  the  bosom  of  the  Don — habitually 
cool  and  circumspect — was,  perhaps,  to  be  expected.  They  sepa- 
rated after  a  profitless  and  brief  conference,  which  satisfied  neither. 

But  if  Don  Balthazar  extracted  nothing  from  Nuno,  the  young 
wife  of  the  latter  was  something  more  successful.  From  her  he 
had  few  concealments.  Scarcely  had  he  reached  home  that  night, 
warmed  with  the  festivities  in  which  he  had  shared  so  freely,  and 
excited  by  the  nature  of  the  mystery  which  oppressed  him,  when 
he  began  his  revelations. 

"  Would  you  believe  it,  Leonora,  it  is  all  over  with  Philip  and 
Olivia  1  There  is  a  breach  between  them,  which  Philip  says  is 
impassable  !  He  has  joined  the  expedition.  What  has  caused 
it,  he  does  not  say  ;  but  he  tells  me  that  there  is  an  end  of  the 
matter  ;  that  she  is  nothing  to  him  now." 

"  Blessed  Maria !  what  does  it  mean  1  Has  she  refused  him  ? 
Foolish,  foolish  creature !  But  she  always  said  that  she  would." 

"  But  she  has  not !  He  has  not  asked  her !  He  told  me  so  in 
so  many  words." 

"  And  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it !  You  men  are  so  proud 
and  vain  that  you  never  like  to  confess  to  a  rejection.  It's  the 
way  with  all  of  you.  Be  assured  that  Philip  has  been  refused. 
She  said  she  would  refuse  him,  but  I  did  not  believe  her.  I  know 
she  loves  him.  But  she  is  so  strange.  It  does  appear  to  me, 


LEONORA'S  SAGACITY.         331 

sometimes,  as  if  she  were  not  in  her  right  mind.  And  to  refuse 
so  nice  a  cavalier  !  I  wonder  where  she  expects  to  find- another 
like  him.  But  it's  not  her  doing,  I'm  sure,  not  her  own  heart ! 
It's  that  cross-grained  uncle  that  she  has.  He  has  done  it  all.  1 
wonder  what  is  the  secret  of  his  power  over  her.  I'm  sure  she 
hates  him.  But  he  rules  her  in  spite  of  it ;  and  he  has  compelled 
her  to  refuse  him." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,  child  ;  for  I  believe  Philip,  and  he  positively 
assured  me  that  he  had  not  asked  her.  He's  not  the  man  to  lie, 
or  to  be  ashamed  of  rejection.  He  has  no  such  weakness.  He 
was  very  earnest  about  it — very  miserable, — and  entreated  me 
never  again  to  speak  to  him  on  the  subject." 

"  Then  I'm  sure  she  has  refused  him.  Did  he  say  he  had  not 
seen  her  ?" 

"  No  !  I  knew  that  he  went  to  the  hacienda  late  in  the  after- 
noon, and  he  admits  that  he  saw  her,  but  did  not  speak  to  her." 
"  Now,  as  if  that  were  reasonable,  Nuno." 
"  It  is  certainly  very  strange.  I  can't  see  into  it." 
"  But  I  do ;  and  the  whole  mystery  lies  in  the  one  fact  that  he 
has  simply  been  rejected,  and  his  pride  will  not  confess  it.  He 
has  been  mortified  by  refusal,  when  he  counted  confidently  on 
success.  And  I  confess,  I  counted  on  it  too ;  for  though  Olivia 
always  said  that  she  would  refuse  h?m,  yet  I  know  that  she  loves 
him  desperately,  and  as  she  will  love  no  other  man.  But  it  is  all 
the  doing  of  Don  Balthazar.  He  hates  Don  Philip — he  hates 
both  the  brothers — I  have  seen  that  a  thousand  times.  But  what 
are  his  hates  to  her,  and  how  has  he  succeeded  in  making  her  sa- 
crifice her  love  to  them  1  What  is  the  secret  of  his  power  to 
control  her  against  her  own  happiness  and  will  ?  That  is  the  se- 
cret which  I  should  like  to  find  out !" 

"You  are  right,  I  suspect,  in  ascribing  it  all  to  her  uncle. 
Philip  is  not  the  man  to  be  rejected  by  any  woman  in  a  hurry, 
and  I  am  convinced,  like  yourself,  that  Olivia  really  loves  him -as 
she  will  be  likely  to  love  no  other  person.  But  there  is  some 
mystery  in  the  whole  affair.  The  poor  girl  is  very  unhappy. 
That  I  have  long  seen,  and  Don  Balthazar  is  at  the  bottom  of  all 


S32  VASCONSELOS. 

her  troubles.  He  manages  her  property,  and  has,  I  suspect,  but 
little  of. his  own.  He  will  be  very  unwilling  to  resign  the  power 
which  this  gives  him  into  the  hands  of  any  other  person.  The 
only  wonder  is  that  she  does  not  see  this,  and  assert  her  indepen- 
dence. She  has  sense  enough  to  understand  her  rights;  but  she 
is  so  weak, — so  timid " 

"  You  mistake  her  there !  Olivia  is  a  woman  of  very  strong 
passions,  and  can  be  very  firm  and  obstinate  upon  occasion. 
What  surprises  me  is,  that  she  does  not  assert  her  will,  and  show 
the  strength  of  her  passion,  in  an  affair  which  so  deeply  concerns 
her  own  happiness,  and  where  her  heart  is  evidently  so  much  in- ' 
terested.  This  is  the  difficulty.  I  do  not  wonder  that  Don 
Balthazar  should  oppose  and  deny,  but  that  she  should  submit ; 
and  the  question  is,  how  does  he  obtain  this  power,  by  which  to 
rule  her  as  he  pleases,  against  her  own  affections,  when  he  him- 
self is  possessed  of  none  of  them."  • 

"  Yet,  it  is  his  influence  certainly,  that  has  somehow  brought 
the  affair  to  this  unfortunate  conclusion,  and  Philip  feels  this. 
Had  you  but  seen  the  look  which  he  gave  Don  Balthazar  when 
they  met  to-night.  His  fingers  clutched  the  handle  of  his  sword 
convulsively,  and  the  gleam  of  hatred  in  his  eyes  was  mixed  up 
with  such  an  expression  of  horror  and  disgust,  as  I  never  saw 
in  mortal  eye  before.  I  shall  never  forget  it." 

"  Still,  I  think  that  they  will  come  together  yet.  She  love: 
him,  I  tell  you,  beyond  all  other  persons.  She  will  never  suffer 
herself  to  be  deprived  of  him,  if  she  can  help  it ;  and  I  don't 
think  she  could  survive  it.  I  tell  you,  Nuno,  she  idolizes 
Don  Philip,  and  she  will  marry  him  yet,  in  spite  of  Don  Bal- 
thazar." 

"Yes,  perhaps; — and  yet,  from  what  Philip  said  to-night,  it 
will  hardly  depend  upon  her.  He  used  the  strongest  language — " 

"  Oh !  a  fig  for  the  strong  language  of  a  lover.  I  know  what  it 
means  always !  He  will  forget  his  resolution  as  soon  as  he  lays 
his  eyes  upon  her,  and  looks  into  her  pale  sweet  face,  and  hears 
the  soft  silvery  voice  that  answers  to  his  own.  He  is  now  only 
under  the  first  feeling  of  vexation  and  anger.  He  talks  as  if  he 


A  SEARCH  FOR  A  SECRET.  333 

would  tear  her  to  pieces,  no  doubt ;  but  let  him  sleep  upon  it,  and 
he  will  rise  in  the  morning  to  renew  his  worship." 

"  Philip  de  Vasconselos  is  like  no  other  man,  I  know." 

"  Ah !  you  are  mistaken.  In  some  things  all  men  are  pretty 
much  alike  ;  and  in  an  affair  of  love — where  there  is  real  love — 
your  strong  cavalier  and  stately  Don  are  just  as  feeble  as  the 
man  of  silk  and  velvet.  You  are  all  pretty  much  alike — all 
easily  overthrown — where  women  are  concerned." 

"  It  is  a  very  strange  affair  throughout." 

"  I'll  find  it  out  to-morrow,  if  I  live.  I'll  see  Olivia  in  the 
morning,  and  she  must  have  sharper  wits,  and  greater  strength, 
than  I  believe,  if  she  can  hide  the  secret  much  longer  from  my 
eyes.  You  will  admit  that  if  Philip  has  seen  her,  then  the  prob- 
ability is  that  she  has  refused  him." 

"He  himself  admits  that  he  has  seen  her — seen  her  this  very 
day,  but  denies  that  he  has  spoken  with  her.  There  is  the  diffi- 
culty— that  is  the  surprising  fact." 

"  Seen  her,  but  not  spoken  with  her !  You  say  he  went  to 
see  her,  and  did  see  her,  but  said  nothing  1" 

"  Yes  ;  that  is  precisely  what  he  asserts." 

"  Oh !  he  means  no  more  than  this — that  he  did  not  propose." 

"  It  may  be — yet  he  spoke  very  precisely  and  positively." 

"  Well,  Olivia  will  be  able  to  answer  that.  She  will,  at  all 
events,  confess  that  there  was  an  interview ;  though  she  may  tell 
me  nothing  of  what  passed  between  them.  If  she  says  so  much 
as  that,  you  will  readily  suppose  that  Don  Philip  has  simply 
kept  back  something  which  his  pride  will  not  suffer  him  to  con- 
fess." 

"  Yes ; — though  how  to  believe  it  of  Philip — how  to  suppose 
him  so  weak,  or  to  think  that  he  should  keep  back  the  truth  from 
me — that  is  what  troubles  me." 

"  Well,  leave  it  till  the  morrow !"  said  the  wife. 

With  the  morrow,  eager  to  penetrate  the  mystery,  Leonora 
de  Tobar  prepared,  at  an  early  hour,  to  visit  her  friend.  She 
found,  unexpectedly,  the  uncle  and  niece  together.  Olivia  was 
looking  paler  than  usual,  and  wore  an  exhausted  and  suffering 


334  VASCONSELOS. 

appearance.  Her  eyes  were  dull,  heavy,  unobservant  and  ex- 
pressionless. Her  whole  mental  nature  seemed  stagnant ;  she 
moved  like  an  automaton  ;  welcomed  her  guest  as  one  in  a 
dream ;  and  sunk  back  upon  the  settee,  after  the  exertion,  like 
one  worn  out  with  long  watching.  Leonora  was  quite  as  flippant 
as  ever,  and  for  a  while  talked  about  a  hundred  nonsensical  mat- 
ters quite  foreign  to  the  one  which  filled  her  thoughts.  She 
longed  and  waited  anxiously  for  the  moment  when  the  withdrawal 
of  Don  Balthazar  would  afford  her  the  opportunity  which  she 
desired  for  broaching  the  one  subject  for  which  alone  she  came. 
But,  as  if  he  divined  her  object,  he  seemed  no  ways  disposed  to 
take  his  departure.  He  bore  patiently  the  torrent  of  small  talk, 
which,  with  the  hope  of  driving  him  away,  she  poured  out  from 
a  most  inexhaustible  fountain.  But  in  vain.  He  fortified  him- 
self with  a  pile  of  papers,  which  he  displayed  upon  the  parlor 
table  soon  after  her  arrival.  Busying  himself  in  army  and  navy 
estimates, — for  Don  Balthazar  filled  several  different  departments 
in  the  bureau  of  the  Adelantado — he  strove  to  busy  himself  in 
the  midst  of  details ;  and,  though  the  incessant  buzzing  in  his 
ears  must  certainly  have  defeated  every  attempt  at  thought  or 
investigation,  he  persevered  in  the  appearance  of  both,  with  un- 
wearied industry.  The  patience  of  Leonora  was  not  of  a  sort 
to  contend  with  that  of  the  veteran,  resolved  upon  an  object. 
She  gave  way  at  last,  but  by  no  means  with  the  intention  to  beat 
a  retreat.  She  only  prepared  to  change  her  operations,  and,  fail- 
ing at  blockade  and  starvation,  she  determined  boldly  to  effect 
her  purpose  by  assault.  Olivia,  all  this  while,  seemed  quite  un- 
conscious of — certainly  indifferent  to, — all  that  was  going  on.  She 
neither  looked  up  nor  listened,  nor  had  a  word  to  say.  Never 
was  there  a  more  perfect  exhibition  of  apathy,  or  we  might  say 
despair.  What  to  her  was  all  this  childish  prattle,  of  her  child 
friend?  What  cared  she  for  that  small  personal  talk  which  made 
the  burden  of  all  her  conversations'?  She  had  neither  mood,  nor 
heart,  nor  head,  nor  memory,  nor  sense,  for  all  that  was  saying 
or  had  been  said.  She  was,  in  truth,  laboring  under  a  sort  of 
aberration  of  mind,  the  result  of  drugs  and  evil  practice,  of  the 


A   CHANGE   OF   OPERATIONS. 

whole  extent  of  which,  though,  in  her  sane  moments,  she  had 
suspicions,  she  had  really  no  conscious  knowledge  except  by  her 
prolonged  sufferings  day  by  day.  But,  very  soon,  the  conversa- 
tion aroused  her.  The  daring  Leonora,  according  to  her  new 
plan  of  operation,  now  addressed  herself  to  the  uncle.  Turning 
to  him  very  abruptly,  and  when  he  was  least  prepared  for  the 
assault,  she  said — 

"  So,  Don  Balthazar,  we  are  to  lose  Don  Philip  de  Vasconselos 
after  all.  The  report  is,  that  he  joined  the  expedition  last  night, 
after  a  very  eloquent  speech.  But  you  must  have  heard  it  all, 
and  can  tell  us  much  better  than  anybody  else." 

Olivia  looked  up  with  a  wild  and  vacant  stare,  but  the  sense 
seemed  to  be  slowly  kindling  in  her  eyes.  With  a  frown,  Don 
Balthazar  replied : 

"  I  do  not  see  what  there  is  to  tell.  No  more,  it  appears,  than 
you  know  already.  Your  husband  was  present.  He,  perhaps, 
remembers  the  speech,  since  he  regards  the  knight  of  Portugal 
as  something  of  an  orator.  Let  him  report  it." 

"  Well,  I  suppose,  after  this,  the  fact  may  be  held  undeniable ; 
and  now  the  wonder  is  why  he  should  have  left  his  purpose 
doubtful  so  long.  Why,  but  a  week  ago,  it  was  in  everybody's 
mouth  that  he  was  not  to  go  at  all — that  he  had  abandoned  the 
expedition  altogether." 

"  Well,  you  admire  him  the  more,  I  suppose,  because  of  his 
feminine  caprices,"  was  the  surly  answer. 

"  No,  indeed,  though  I  don't  see  anything  amiss  in  caprices 
now  and  then.  They  are  rather  agreeable,  to  my  notion.  But, 
in  his  case,  people  found  good  reasons  for  his  refusal  to  go ;  better, 
indeed,  than  I  can  find  for  his  present  change  of  mind." 

"  Ah  !  well !  good  reasons  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  !  Very  excellent  reasons,  Senor  ;  they  gave  him 
credit  for  discovering  more  precious  treasures  in  Havana  than  he 
was  like  to  find  in  Florida,  and  at  less  peril  of  life  and  comfort; 
and  these  were  surely  good  reasons  for  staying." 

"  Humph !"  quoth  the  Don,  looking  askance  at  Olivia,  in 


336  VASCONSELOS. 

whose  eyes  the  returning  light  of  thought  was  momently  grow- 
ing more  intelligent. 

"  The  truth  is,"  continued  Leonora,  "  nobody  could  question 
the  admiration  of  Don  Philip  for  our  dear  Olivia  here.  Every- 
body  saw  it ;  it  was  in  everybody's  mouth  ;  and  to  confess  my 
conviction,  I  was  very  sure  that  Olivia  had  just  as  much  regard 
for  Don  Philip  as  he  felt  for  her." 

Olivia  sighed  involuntarily.  The  knight  looked  very  savage, 
and  turned  over  his  papers  diligently.  After  a  pause,  he 
said, — 

''  I  know  no  law  which  forbids  fools  to  talk  about  their  neigh- 
bors. I  suppose  it  is  hardly  punishable,  since  such  people  are 
not  to  be  held  strictly  to  account  for  what  they  say  ;  but  I  trust 
my  niece  has  given  no  sufficient  reason  for  the  assumption,  on 
the  part  of  any  body,  that  she  had  given  away  her  affections 
gratuitously  to  any  man — to  one,  indeed,  who  had  never  sought 
them." 

"Well,  Senor,  that  is  well  said  by  a  guardian  ;  but  hearts  are  not 
always  regulated  by  the  strict  letter  of  domestic  law.  They  are 
like  birds,  which  will  break  out  of  cage  if  you  leave  the  door 
open.  Affections  are  strangely  wilful  things,  Senor,  and  very 
apt  to  fly  in  the  face  of  authority." 

"  You  have  good  reason  for  saying  so,  Senora ! "  was  the 
scornful  sneer  of  the  Don  in  return,  emphasising  with  a  pause 
the  pronoun,  and  thus  making  an  allusion  sufficiently  obvious  to 
her  amour  (which  the  church  had  not  sanctioned)  with  Nuno  de 
Tobar.  But  she  received  it  with  a  cool  indifference  that  silenced 
all  further  attacks  of  the  same  sort. 

"  Oh  !  if  you  allude  to  me,  I  confess  that  I  have  been  wilful 
enough  and  sinful  enough,  and  that  my  affections  very  readily 
ran  away  with  my  prudence  ;  and  but  that  Nuno  was  a  blessed 
good  boy,  and  loved  me  for  my  heart,  and  not  for  my  wisdom, 
I  should  have  been  a  sad  piece  of  scandal  for  all  Cuba.  I  was 
born  a  woman,  Senor,  and  I  believe  I  will  always  be  one,  let  me 
live  never  so  long.  Now,  a  woman  has  a  natural  faith  in  man, 


A   MATCH   FOB   THE   DON.  337 

as  her  born  guardian,  and  protector,  and  lover,  and  friend  ;  and 
if  he  wrongs  her  faith,  he  discredits  himself,  not  her.  That's 
my  notion  in  such  cases.  Don't  suppose  that  you  make  me  feel 
at  all  uncomfortable  by  your  hints  ;  for  I  am  willing  to  admit, 
to  all  Cuba,  that  I  was  very  weak,  and  very  loving — too  loving 
to  believe  evil  of  the  man -I  fancied  !  So  now,  Don  Balthazar, 
if  it  pleases  you  to  talk  of  my  affairs,  I  can't  prevent  you.  It's 
the  fool's  privilege,  as  you  have  just  said,  against  which  there  is 
no  law,  to  say  what  one  pleases  of  his  friends ;  and  you  have 
certainly  the  same  rights  as  other  people ;  but,  in  truth,  if  you 
will  suffer  me,  I  will  speak  rather  of  Olivia  and  Don  Philip,  as 
being  just  now  much  better  subjects,  and  about  which  I  feel 
much  more  concerned." 

The  little  woman's  good  nature  actually  endowed  her  with 
wit  and  wisdom.  Don  Balthazar  was  quite  astounded  by  her 
audacity.  She  was  invulnerable  to  his  shafts.  He  looked  up, 
and  glared  upon  her  more  savagely  than  ever,  but  remained  si- 
lent ;  and  in  a  moment  after,  seemed  more  than  ever  busy  with 
his  documents.  But  Leonora  went  on,  and  somehow,  his  in- 
stincts prompted  him  to  listen.  She  might  have  heard  from  her 
husband  what  the  latter  had  withheld  from  him  ;  and  his  doubts 
had  been  by  no  means  quieted  by  the  reflections  of  the  past 
night.  Leonora  now  especially  addressed  herself  to  Olivia, 

"  I  confess,  dear  Olivia,  that  I  am  surprised  and  disappointed. 
I  feel  vexed  at  this  strange  determination  of  Don  Philip,  know- 
ing that  he  loves  you,  and  believing  that  you  love  him,  that  he 
should  resolve  to  go  without  addressing  you.  But  perhaps  he 
has  done  so,  and  you  have  been  so  foolish  as  to  refuse  him !  Ah, 
my  child,  can  it  be  possible  ?  " 

The  sad  eyes  of  Olivia,  now  full  of  expression,  anticipated  the 
reply  of  her  lips. 

"  He  has  not  addressed  me,  Leonora ;  he  has  not  even  been 
ho  re.  I  have  not  seen  him  since  the  moment  when  I  was  taken 
sick  at  the  tournament." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  " 

"  True  !"  said  Olivia,  very  mournfully.     "  True !" 
15 


338  VASCOXSELOS. 

"  Nay,"  continued  Leonora,  after  a  thoughtful  pause — "  nay, 
there  must  be  some  mistake  in  this.  You  certainly  have  seen 
him  within  the  last  two  days,  though  he  may  not  have  proposed 
to  you." 

"  No  !     I  have  not." 

"  That  is  strange  !" 

"  Why  strange  ?" 

"  He  has  certainly  seen  you  since  the  tournament." 

"  Why  do  you  think  so  ?" 

"  He  told  Nuno  that  he  had  !     Told  him  so  only  last  night." 

Don  Balthazar  could  not  keep  his  eyes  upon  the  papers.  He 
looked  up  inquiringly  to  Leonora.  She  noted  the  curious  ex- 
pression in  his  eyes,  and  was  determined  to  withhold  nothing 
which  should  either  obtain  for  herself  the  secret  which  she  de- 
sired, or  should  goad  the  haughty  Don  with  revelations  which 
she  somehow  fancied  would  annoy  him.  When,  therefore,  Olivia 
anxiously  besought  her,  as  to  the  alleged  visit  of  Philip,  she  pre- 
pared to  tell  all  that  she  knew. 

"  Well,  I  know  that  he  has  been  to  see  you  twice  in  the  last 
two  days.  He  came  day  before  yesterday,  and  was  a  party  to 
an  encounter  which  took  place  in  your  grounds  here  between  a 
troop  of  alguazils  and  a  certain  outlaw." 

"  A  slave — a  mestizo  ?"  involuntarily  asked  the  Don. 

"  Even  so  :  one  Mateo  !  Philip  told  Nuno  all  about  it.  He 
interposed,  finding  half  a  score  of  persons  upon  one ;  until  the 
officers  told  him  how  the  matter  stood,  and  then  he  suffered  them 
to  proceed.  The  outlaw  made  his  escape,  however ;  and  Don 
Philip  then  proceeded  to  visit  you,  when  your  girl,  Juana,  met 
him,  and  told  him  that  you  were  sick  and  had  retired  for  the 
night." 

"  When  was  this  ?"  demanded  Olivia,  with  strange  calmness. 

"  Two  days  ago  only." 

Olivia  rose  and  called  Juana.  The  girl  was  close  at  hand — • 
had  been  listening,  in  fact,  at  the  door.  She  made  her  appear- 
ance,  and  on  being  asked,  confirmed  the  story. 

"  Why  did  you  speak  a  falsehood,  Juana  ?" 


LIGHT  BREAKING   IN.  339 

The  girl  hung  her  head  and  made  no  answer.  Olivia  turned 
to  Leonora. 

"  You  say  that  Don  Philip  came  here  again,  Leonora  ?  Was 
here  yesterday?" 

"  Yes — so  he  assured  Nuno  last  night." 

"  When  ?  at  what  hour  ?" 

"  Last  evening — about  dusk." 

"  And  saw  me  ?" 

"  So  he  said  ;  but,  strangely  enough,  he  mentioned  that  though 
he  saw  you,  he  did  not  speak  to  you.  Yet  he  came  to  speak. 
He  came  to  offer  you  his  hand." 

Olivia  pressed  her  hands  upon  her  heart,  with  a  look  of  inde- 
scribable suffering.  Don  Balthazar  arose,  somewhat  agitated, 
and  approached  Leonora. 

"  You  say,  Senora,  that  Don  Philip  was  here  last  evening  ? 
Last  evening!" 

"Yes." 

"  And  at  dusk  ?" 

"  About  that  time.  He  came  hither  about  sunset.  Nuno  saw 
him  when  he  left  his  lodgings  to  make  the  visit,  and  he  told  him 
all  about  it." 

"  And  he  saw  me  ?  "  said  Olivia.     "  Where  was  I  ?" 

"  In  the  summer-house,  Senorita !"  was  the  voluntary  reply 
of  Juana,  who  had  been  eagerly  waiting  to  speak. 

"  It  is  a  mistake  !"  said  Don  Balthazar — "  He  was  not  here. 
I  tell  you,  Senorita,  it  is  altogether  a  mistake." 

This  was  said  with  a  vehemence  meant  to  cover  an  agitation 
which  the  knight  could  not  otherwise  subdue.  Olivia  beheld  this 
agitation  through  the  effort  to  conceal  it.  His  asseveration  went 
for  nothing,  particularly  as  Leonora  insisted  that  Don  Philip  had 
declared  the  fact  to  her  husband,  only  last  night,  and  after  the 
former  had  made  his  speech. 

"  It  is  impossible  !"  said  Don  Balthazar,  in  a  manner  meant 
to  silence  all  further  discussion  ;  but  the  malignant  element  in  the 
bosom  of  the  slave,  Juana,  was  not  prepared  to  suffer  him  to 


340  VASCONSELOS. 

escape  thus  easily.  She  could  not  suppress  the  grin  of  malice 
from  her  features,  as  she  hastily  replied  : — 

"  Oh  !  yes,  Senior;  Don  Philip  was  certainly  here ;  and  was 
at  the  summer-house.  I  saw  him  when  he  was  leaving  it.  It 
was  there  he  must  have  seen  the  Sefiorita.  You  came  out  of 
the  summer-house  just  after  Don  Philip  had  gone." 

"  I !"  exclaimed  the  Don  with  troubled  aspect — "  I !" 

"  You,  Senor !"  cried  Olivia,  rising  and  striding  across  the 
interval  that  separated  her  from  her  uncle — while  her  eyes,  dilat- 
ing beyond  their  orbs,  were  fixed  upon  him  with  an  expression 
of  mixed  agony  and  horror. 

"  You  ! — you ! — were  you  in  the  summer-house  last  evening — 
you, — when  I  was  there  !" 

He  was  silent  ....  Juana  supplied  the  answer. 

"  Yes,  my  lady — the  Senor  went  to  the  summer-house  after 
he  had  dined.  But  it  was  dusk  before  I  saw  Don  Philip.  I  did 
not  see  Don  Philip  when  he  came,  but  only  when  he  was  coming 
down  the  steps  of  the  summer-house,  and  was  going  away;  and 
I  was  quite  frightened  to  see  his  face.  He  looked  like  a  man 
that  was  going  crazy ;  and  O  !  how  he  did  groan  !  I  heard  him  ! 
I  was  quite  afraid  to  go  near  him." 

"  What  did  he  here  at  that  hour !"  cried  Don  Balthazar,  furi- 
ously— "  How  dare  he  intrude  upon  my  privacy ! How 

dared  you " 

He  was  arrested  in  his  speech  by  the  action  of  Olivia,  who 
suddenly  pressed  closer  to  him,  so  as  almost  to  touch  him,  her 
hands  clasped  together,  and  with  such  a  look — so  like  madness, 
in  her  face — that,  involuntarily,  the  uncle  recoiled  from  her,  and 
the  words  died  away  upon  his  lips. 

"  Oh  !  you  have  done  your  worst  now !"  she  exclaimed.  "  I 
see  it  all !  I  know  it  all !  Fiend  and  monster  as  you  are, — you 
feel  it,  too,  do  you  not !  You  see  it !  You  will  burn  for  this  ! 
Your  rages  shall  be  endless  !  There  shall  be  no  drop  of  water 
for  your  tongue !  There  must  be  a  hell,  if  it  be  for  your  use 
only !  There  must  be  devils,  if  it  be  only  for  your  torture ! 


THE   SCENE   CLOSED.  841 

Oh  !  do  not  start,  and  recoil !  I  will  not  harm  you  !  Daggers 
would  be  no  punishment  for  such  crimes  as  yours.  Hell !  hell 
only!  Hell!  hell!  hell!" 

She  clasped  her  head  with  both  her  hands,  and  reeled  about 
dizzily.  Leonora  caught  her  in  her  arms  in  time  to  save  her 
from  falling  upon  the  floor.  She  was  in  a  swoon  !  It  came  sea- 
sonably to  save  her  from  madness.  We  close  the  scene.  Let 
us  suppose  that  Leonora  clung  lovingly,  and  nursed  heedfully 
her  suffering  friend ;  and  that  Don  Balthazar  fled  from  the  pres- 
ence which,  with  all  his  brutal  heartlessness  of  character,  he  dared 
not  face. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

"  I  swear 

To  dedicate  my  cunning  and  my  strength, 
My  silence,  and  whatever  else  is  mine, 
To  thy  commands."  SHKLLET. 

DON  BALTHAZAR  fled  into  the  recesses  of  the  thicket,  and 
buried  himself  amid  dark  and  savage  thoughts. 

"  He  knows  all,  indeed !"  he  exclaimed,  when  he  felt  him- 
self alone.  "  Where  was  that  scoundrel,  Mateo,  that  he  did 
not  slay  him  before  this !  But  for  those  bungling  alguazils  ! 
they  have  marred  his  purpose.  I  forgot  to  warn  them,  and 
hence  all  the  mischief.  But,  if  it  were  necessary  that  I  should 
have  him  put  out  of  the  way  before,  it  is  trebly  necessary 
now  !  He  knows  too  much !  He  could  blast  me,  at  any  mo- 
ment, by  his  speech !  He  must  die !  She  must  die  !  It  is 
now  the  only  means  of  safety  !  Oh  !  would  it  had  been  done 
the  very  hour  that  I  resolved  upon  it !  I  should  have  done  it 
with  my  own  hand,  if  I  had  only  dreamed  of  this  danger.  I  was 
mad,  blind,  oblivious, — a  very  dolt, — not  to  see  that  his  exist- 
ence was  perilous  to  my  safety  ! — Hers  too  !  But  I  must  be 
heedful  in  this  matter.  It  will  not  do  here.  It  will  not  do  till 
I  am  gone.  Then,  I  shall  contrive  it.  I  will  send  her  off  to  the 
country.  She  shall  depart  as  soon  as  she  is  fit  to  travel.  Sylvia 
shall  see  to  the  rest.  It  shall  be  done.  For  him!  ah!  how 
shall  I  manage  that  ?  Shall  it  be  here  ?  Shall  it  be  in  Florida  ? 
Here,  best,  if  Mateo  can  contrive  it;  but  in  Florida  it  will  be 
quite  as  easy.  He  has  no  followers ; — few  friends  !  If  he  is 
found,  with  a  knife  in  his  bosom,  it  is  by  the  hand  of  the  red 
man  that  he  dies  !  Who  will  doubt?  None  !  and  he  must  die  ! 
That  is  settled.  It  is  his  life  or  mine  !  Would  I  could  see  that 
scoundrel  Mateo  !" 

The  devil  is  said  to  answer  promptly  whenever  he  is  called. 
The  person  invoked  stood  the  next  moment  before  tlje  Don. 

"Ha!  Ha!  You  want  Mateo,  do  you? — the  scoundrel 
Mateo  ! — well,  you  see  him,  I  hope.  He  is  here,  and  not  so 
much  a  scoundrel  as  some  that  wear  much  better  reputation." 

The  reckless  outlaw  laughed  irreverently  at  his  own  sarcasm. 
He  felt  his  securities.  Perhaps,  he  would  have  even  relished  a 
hand-to-hand  struggle  with  the  knight ;  but  he  seemed  to  enter- 
tain no  hostile  purpose,  and  stood  quietly  confronting  him,  look- 
ing  good-humored  enough,  considering  the  genuine  feelings  of 

(342) 


THE   DEVIL    ALWAYS  AT  HAND.  343 

hatred  which  he  felt  for  his  superior.  Don  Balthazar  was 
not  a  timid  man, — was  not  easily  startled  by  any  event  or 
presence, — and  certainly  had  no  fears  of  any  individual  foe; 
but  the  appearance  of  the  outlaw,  so  apropos  to  his  summons, 
brought  up  to  his  mind  a  vague  image  of  the  satanic  presence, 
which,  in  fact,  was  the  true  meaning  of  his  requisition.  It  is  the 
)ielli>h  agent  which  we  summon  always  when  we  design  a  hellish 
deed.  Don-  Balthazar,  however,  welcomed  the  fugitive  after  his 
own  fashion,  with  the  air  of  a  master  who  knew  his  rights,  and 
had  reason  to  complain. 

"  You  are  here  at  last !  But  you  have  done  nothing.  You 
promised  finely  !  Where  are  your  performances?  Had  you 
done  according  to  your  pledges,  I  had  been  saved  from  a  very 
unpleasant  affiiir  !" 

"  Had  I  done  ! — and  who  is  to  blame,  I  beg  to  know,  that  I 
have  not  done  1  You  make  a  bargain  with  me,  and  when  I  set 
about  to  do  my  work,  I  find  your  alguazils  upon  my  heels. 
Your  alguazils,  bearing  your  orders  to  seize  and  bind  me,  and 
have  me  properly  dressed  for  the  honors  of  ihcgarote  ml  !  Ah! 
indeed  !  The  yarote  vil  for  your  own  ally — the  man  who  is  to 
risk  his  life  doing  your  business  !  What  do  you  say  to  that  ?" 

"  What  do  I  say  !  Wrhy,  that  the  thing  was  wholly  a  mistake. 
The  rascals  did  not  understand  me." 

"  A  mistake !  Oh,  it  would  have  been  precious  consolation 
to  me,  with  my  neck  fitted  with  an  iron  cravat,  to  hear  that  it 
was  done  wholly  by  mistake  !  I  had  as  lief  die  by  the  law,  as  by 
mistake,  any  day !" 

"  I  tell  you  that  the  alguazils  were  ordered  after  you,  before 
I  had  spoken  with  you  ;  I  only  forgot  to  see  and  speak  to  them, 
and  they  continued  the  search  in  consequence.  But  I  will  put 
a  stop  to  their  pursuit." 

"  Oh  !  you  forgot  only  !  But  that  was  strange  on  your  part. 
You're  too  much  a  man  of  business  to  forget  such  things  in  com- 
mon. But  you'll  remember  now,  you  say  ;  and  I'm  to  be  pur- 
sued no  more  ?" 

"  Yes :  I  shall  see  to  it  this  very  day  ;  but  you  are  to  do  the 
1  usiness  you  undertook  ?" 

"  Ah  !  that  business  !" 

"  Yes ;  you  will  dispose  of  this  knight  of  Portugal,  shortly, 
as  you  do  your  prayers; — send  him  to  God  by  a  quick  convey- 
ance ?  You  are  not  afraid  ?  You  will  not  shrink  from  your 
engagements  ]" 

"  Afraid  !  O,  no  !  I'm  not  afraid  of  your  alguazils  !  As  for 
keeping  my  engagements,  that  will  depend  upon  the  way  you 


344  VASCONSELOS. 

keep  yours.  I  don't  see  that,  so  far,  you've  been  very  keen  to 
remember  them." 

"  You  make  too  much  of  this  forgetfulness  of  mine." 

"  Oh  !  you  may  forget  again  !  1  never  trust  a  bad  memory ; 
not  even  my  own.  See  this  handkerchief;  there  are  three  knots 
in  it.  Every  one  marks  a  life.  This  is  one  I  put  in  it  when  I 
engaged  with  you  to  send  Don  Philip  by  a  short  cut  to  para- 
dise. You  must  knot  your  handkerchief  too,  before  I  take  this 
knot  out  of  mine." 

Don  Balthazar  received  the  suggestion  rather  literally.  He 
coolly  took  out  his  handkerchief,  and  proceeded  to  knot  it ;  but 
the  outlaw  laughed. 

"  Look  you,  Don  Balthazar,  the  man  who  can't  write,  makes 
his  knot  in  the  handkerchief;  but  that's  not  the  rule  for  you. 
You  must  7nake  your  knot  on  paper,  with  pen  and  ink  ;  and 
there  must  be  a  great  seal  to  it.  Get  me  the  pardon,  under  the 
hands  of  the  Adelantado,  for  all  past  offences ;  that's  one  knot 
you're  to  make.  Prepare  me  the  paper  that  proves  mine  and 
Juana's  freedom,  and  when  you  give  me  these,  I  shall  take  out 
my  knot  here,  and  Don  Philip  will  fly  off  to  join  the  angels  in 
paradise  ;  that  will  save  you  from  finding  him  in  your  way 
hereafter." 

And  the  fellow  chuckled  greatly  at  his  own  wit.  Don  Bal- 
thazar was  not  so  well  pleased  at  these  requisitions. 

"  But,  when  I  have  got  you  these  papers,  what  security  have  I 
that  you  will  do  what  you  promise  for  me  ?" 

"  Security  !  Well,  it  seems  to  me  that  your  security  will  be 
quite  as  good  as  mine.  What  security  do  you  give  me,  when  I 
have  slain  Don  Philip,  that  you  will  do  for  me  what  you  have 
promised  1" 

"  Slave !  Do  you  count  the  word  of  a  nobleman,  and  a 
soldier,  as  of  no  more  value  than  that  of  a  mestizo  and  an 
outlaw  ?"• 

"  Pooh,  pooh,  Senor  ;  that  sort  of  talk  won't  do  between  us! 
It's  you  that  are  the  outlaw,  not  me  !  I  am  to  kill  Don  Philip 
on  your  account,  not  on  mine ;  because  you  hate  him,  and  not 
from  any  hate  that  I  bear  the  Portuguese.  Were  I  to  kill  him  on 
my  own  account,  /should  be  outlawed  :  killing  him /or  you,  it's 
your  act,  not  mine,  and  you're  the  outlaw  !  Don't  speak  to  me 
as  if  there  was  any  difference  between  us.  There's  none,  I  tell 
you,  but  what's  in  my  favor!  I  think  myself  a  much  better 
man  than  you  any  way.  I  don't  get  other  people  to  fight  my 
battles,  or  avenge  my  wrongs — there's  where  I'm  the  better 
man  ;  and  as  for  strength  and  skill  with  the  weapon,  why,  I  could 


WHICH   IS   THE   OUTLAW?  345 

slit  your  throat  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  and  before  you  could 
mutter  an  ai>e." 

Thus  saying,  he  flourished  his  naked  machete  in  fearful  prox- 
imity to  the  knight's  face.  The  cheeks  of  the  Don  flushed  crim- 
son, and  he  hastily  drew  his  sword  half-way  from  the  sheath. 

"  Oh!  put  up,"  said  the  outlaw;  "  it's  no  use — and  besides,  it's 
not  necessary.  I'm  not  going  to  kill  you ;  and  if  I  were,  you 
could  do  nothing  to  help  yourself.  I  wouldn't  give  you  the 
smallest  chance.  I'd  be  into  you,  and  through  you,  before  you 
could  get  your  toledo  out  of  the  scabbard.  I'm  none  of  your 
fine  knights  of  Castile  and  Portugal,  to  let  you  put  yourself  just 
in  your  own  attitude  to  fight;  all  that  seems  to  me  only  foolishness. 
Here's  my  enemy,  and  I'm  to  kill  him.  If  1  don't  kill  him,  he 
kills  me.  Now,  I  don't  want  to  be  killed,  just  yet ;  and  I  rather 
he  should  die  than  me !  What  then  ?  Will  I  give  him  a 
chance  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it !  I'll  slit  his  throat  without  saying, 
'  By  your  leave,  senor.'  And  if  it  was  my  profit  to  slit  yours, 
I'd  have  done  it  without  all  this  palaver.  Don't  be  afraid. 
We're  on  terms.  I've  a  contract  with  you  ;  and  I'm  willing  to 
work  for  you,  on  conditions.  But  you  must  get  down  from  the 
great  horse  when  you  speak  to  me.  I  can't  bear  to  be  ridden 
over  by  any  Don  that  ever  came  from  Spain  !  and  I  won't ! 
There  now ;  you  know  me.  Is  it  a  thing  clear  between  us  ? 
Will  you  get  me  the  pardon,  the  free  papers,  with  the  big  seal  ? 
Shall  I  kill  the  knight  of  Portugal  for  you  ?" 

"  You're  a  bold  fellow,  Mateo  ; — it's  a  bargain  !" 

"  Very  good.  When  shall  I  have  the  papers  1  I  must  have 
them,  to  see,  and  to  show ;  for  I  can't  read,  senor,  and  must  get 
some  one  to  read  them  for  me,  to  see  that  all's  right,  before  I 
do  my  share  in  the  business." 

"  You  are  hard  in  your  conditions,  Mateo ;  but  you  shall  have 
your  own  way.  Meet  me  here,  at  this  hour,  two  days  hence, 
and  you  shall  have  the  pardon  and  the  papers !" 

"  Good,  senor  ;  I'll  be  punctual  to  the  sun." 

When  the  two  separated,  the  knight  proceeded,  almost  imme- 
diately, to  take  horse,  and  ride  into  the  city  ;  the  outlaw  disap- 
peared within  the  thickets.  Don  Balthazar  did  not  return  to  the 
BAcienda  that  night.  In  his  place,  Olivia  had  another  visitor. 
While  Sylvia  slept,  Juana  conducted  her  brother  to  the  chamber 
of  her  mistress.  The  latter  appeared  to  expect  him  ;  she  was 
certainly  not  unprepared  for  his  corning. 

It  was  surprising  to  behold  her  countenance,  as  the  bold  out- 
law entered  the  chamber.  Where  had  she  acquired  that  won- 
derful composure — that  strength  of  calm — so  suddenly  1 — after 
15* 


316  VASCOXSELOd 

the  overthrow  of  her  hope  and  pride,  so  terrible  and  so  recent  1 
• — after  that  wild  compulsion  which  seemed  to  have  racked 
equally  the  body  and  the  soul,  how  had  she  so  soon  and 
thoroughly  recovered  ?  In  the  utter  wreck  of  her  pride,  her 
sensibilities  seemed  suddenly  to  have  become  blunted.  !She 
had  the  look  of  one  who  felt  nothing.  There  was  not  in  her 
countenance  the  slightest  show  of  suffering.  Her  eyes  were 
strong  in  their  glare, — not  sad.  The  muscles  of  her  mouth 
betrayed  not  the  slightest  emotion.  She  looked  like  one  of 
those  wretched  persons  whom  we  sometimes  encounter  in  society, 
who  grow  prematurely  wise — who  never  know  youth  or  child- 
hood— who  spring,  at  a  single  bound,  into  manhood,  and  the  full 
possession  of  their  minds ;  and  who  do  so,  in  almost  all  cases, 
at  the  expense  of  their  hearts — nay,  to  the  utter  death  and  burial 
of  their  hearts  !  Such  premature  development  always  makes 
monsters.  The  look  of  Olivia  was  that  of  one  whose  heart  was 
utterly  dead  within  her,  and  who  has  survived  and  forgotten — if, 
indeed,  she  ever  knew — its  loss.  It  was — to  sum  up  in  a  word 
already  used — all  stony  !  The  calm  was  that  of  death — the 
composure,  that  of  insensibility — not  apathy  !  Yet  there  was 
life  in  her.  There  was  a  new-born  energy  working  within 
her  soul.  That  had  survived  the  heart — had  acquired  its 
strength — only  in  the  utter  annihilation  of  the  hope,  if  not  the 
affections.  These  still  lived,  however ; — but  in  what  manner  1 
We  shall,  perhaps,  see  as  we  advance;  but  they  were  not  now  to 
declare  themselves  in  the  ordinary  way,  as  is  the  case  with  those 
who  do  not  live  to  denial — who  still  indulge,  if  not  in  hope,  in 
dreams — in  delirium!  Olivia  had  her  purposes  still ;  and,  through 
these,  her  lingering  and  blighted  affections  were  still  destined  to 
exist,  and  work  ; — but  she  had  no  more  feminine  emotions.  The 
blissful  though  deceiving  reveries  of  her  woman  heart  were  all 
at  an  end  !  There  were  now  no  delicious  fancies,  tripping,  like 
nimble  servitors,  in  obedience  to  thought  or  will ;  bringing  gay 
colors,  and  creatures  of  the  element,  to  beguile  her  saddened 
moods.  Fancy  had  been  stripped  of  all  its  wings — ruthlessly 
stripped — and  life  now  crept  on  like  the  worm  deposited  beneath 
the  precious  flowers,  to  which  it  can  no  longer  fly.  But  the 
worm  still  had  life ;  and  a  will,  which  continued  to  incline  in  the 
direction  of  its  former  fancies.  Olivia  de  Alvaro,  we  repeat, 
has  still  a  purpose, — whether  of  hate  or  love  we  have  yet  to 
learn  !  Enough,  that  it  is  the  purpose  of  a  broken  heart, — well 
knowing  how  complete  has  been  its  ruin, — how  utterly  hopeless 
is  its  condition, — how  dread  its  humiliation, — how  unrelieved 
by  solace,  whether  of  mind,  or  heart,  or  soul.  She  is  without 


A  NEW   MYSTERY.  347 

aspirations ;  yet  she  has  a  purpose  !    And  that  purpose  ?  We  shall 
sec  as  we  proceed. 

Whatever  it  is,  she  pursued  it  with  such  energies  as  she  has 
never  before  displayed  in  the  prosecution  of  any  object.  They 
are  such  as  might  become  the  strongest-willed  person  of  the 
other  sex.  She  bends  her  whole  soul  upon  the  task.  She  ex- 
cludes all  fears,  all  doubts,  from  consideration — everything 
which  may  impair  her  efforts.  Perhaps,  we  should  rather  say 
that,  feeling  as  she  does,  her  soul  is  no  longer  accessible  to  fears. 
She  has  endured  the  last  sorrow,  and  the  worst ;  and  death  has 
no  terrors,  in  a  season,  when  life  is  not  only  without  hope,  but 
without  inspiration  of  any  kind.  She  wrought,  nevertheless,  as 
one  dedicated  to  duty  ;  as  one,  too,  to  whom  the  strength  came, 
physical  and  spiritual,  only  with  the  duty !  An  hour  had  made 
her  a  new  person ;  and,  with  the  due  consciousness  of  a  fresh 
impulse,  she  has  no  time  for  sorrows.  Sorrows!  How  should 
tears,  or  wail  ings  even,  or  prolonged  watching,  give  testimony 
to  such  a  woe  as  hers  !  To  have  been  capable  of  either  would 
have  implied  very  inferior  sensibilities,  or  a  smaller  degree  of 
heart  and  suffering ! 

A  night  of  stunning  and  strange  sensations,  that  seemed  rather 
to  afflict  the  body  than  the  mind,  and  she  stood  up,  a  new  being! 
With  the  dawn  she  found  herself  employed, — active,  watchful, 
vigilant, — speaking  few  words,  but  firmly, — allowing  no  ques- 
tions,— willing,  and  causing  to  be  done,  according  to  her  will  ! 
J  uana,  now  honestly  prepared  to  serve,  was  put  in  requisition, 
and  kept  busy.  At  night  she  was  required,  as  we  see,  to  bring 
her  brother,  the  outlaw,  to  the  chamber  of  her  mistress.  When 
there,  the  latter  had  few  words,  but  they  exhibited  her  in  a 
wholly  new  attitude,  to  both  brother  and  sister.  Juana  she  dis- 
missed to  another  chamber.  From  Mateo,  now  alone  with  her, 
she  demanded  an  account  of  his  interview  with  Don  Balthazar. 
He  revealed  its  purport — all !  Olivia  listened  without  seeming 
emotion.  When  he  was  done,  she  said  : 

"  I  have  presumed  on  your  fidelity,  Mateo.  You  dare  not  lie 
to  me  !  You  will  not !  I  am  willing  to  believe  you.  You  are 
too  much  of  a  man  to  deceive  me." 

"  By  the  Blessed  Virgin  !" — he  began. 

"  It  does  not  need,  Mateo,  that  you  swear.  I  will  believe  you. 
You  shall  work  for  me,  and  shed  no  blood  !  There  is  your  par- 
don, which  1  have  procured  for  you  through  the  Lady  Isabella; 
and  there  is  the  paper,  \vhichmakesyouand  Juana  free  people — ' 
no  longer  slaves  of  mine.  Take  them,  and  then  listen  to  what  I 
would  have  you  do." 


348  VASCONSELOS. 

The  outlaw  fell  at  her  feet, — seized  her  hand,  and  covered  it 
with  kisses.  She  withdrew  it,  indifferently,  without  emotion. 

"  Enough,"  she  said  :  "  Enough  !  How  long,  Mateo,  will  it 
take  you  to  procure  me  a  supply  of  the  roots  for  making  the 
tawny  brown  dye  of  the  mountains  ?" 

"  I  can  get  you  any  quantity,  Senora,  in  a  short  twelve  hours." 

"  Be  it  so.     You  must  set  out  for  it  as  soon  as  I  dismiss  you." 

Juana  here  peered  within  the  chamber,  but  the  lady  motioned 
her  away,  and  then,  in  a  whisper,  gave  Mateo  some  other  inst  ruc- 
tions. Her  manner  was  calm,  resolute,  emotionless  wholly ; 
her  words  clear,  though  whispered ;  her  purpose  made  fully 
evident  to  his  understanding,  though  at  present  it  is  withheld 
from  ours.  He  argued  with  her  purpose,  but  in  vain.  He 
finally  submitted ; — -Juana  was  called  in,  and  her  brother  hur- 
riedly disappeared.  He  returned  by  noon  of  the  next  day,  and 
brought  her  the  roots  of  a  native  dye,  such  as  she  required.  He 
had  .other  trusts  to  execute,  which  kept  him  actively  employed. 
Meanwhile,  Juana  kept  diligent  watch.  The  espionage  of  Sylvia 
was  baffled ;  and,  more  than  once  during  the  day  and  night, 
Mateo  penetrated  the  dwelling  in  safety, — sometimes  with  a 
package  beneath  his  arm  ;  sometimes  with  only  certain  tidings 
on  his  lips.  He  wrought  submissively,  beneath  a  will  which  it 
was  neither  his  policy  nor  his  desire  to  disobey.  Meanwhile, 
his  eyes  filled,  rough  and  savage  as  he  was,  as  he  gazed  upon 
Olivia,  and  remembered  that  it  was  by  his  agency  that  her  pride 
had  received  its  fatal  blow — to  say  nothing  of  her  hope — in  the 
terrible  moment  when  Philip  de  Vasconselos  had  entered  the 
summer-house.  But  he  dared  not  make  this  confession. 

"  Yet,  how  could  I  help  it  ?"  quoth  the  outlaw,  to  himself,  by 
way  of  apology.  "  He  had  saved  me,  had  served  me,  and  was 
a  noble  gentleman.  Then,  I  knew  her  only  as  the  kin  of  that 
scoundrel,  Don  Balthazar !  Yet,  I  wish  it  had  not  been  so  !" 

The  regret  was  unavailing,  but  it  strengthened  the  desire  in 
the  heart  of  the  outlaw  to  serve  her  faithfully  in  all  things ;  and 
it  softened  him  to  survey  her,  so  wholly  changed, — a  woman  no 
longer, — stern,  inaccessible,  hopeless, — having  but  one  idea  ; 
and  that — he  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  thought  of  it.  But  he 
was  forbid  to  argue  it  again. 

"  I  have  heard  of  such  things  before ;  but,  after  all,  it's,  only  a 
sort  of  madness  !  She  will  break  down  in  it,  or  break  out, — and 
that's  pretty  much  the  same  thing, — and  then  it's  all  over  with 
her  !  Oh!  it  is  so  pitiful!  and  she  so  young,  so  beautiful,  and  of 
such  a  great  family  !  Demonios  !  How  I  should  like  to  cure 
all  the  trouble,  if  it  could  be  done,  by  making  three  cuts  with 
my  machete  on  the  black  heart  of  that  monster,  Don  Balthazar  I 


A   NEW   MYSTERY.  349 

I  Would  make  a  cross  for  him  should  cross  him  out  forever ! 
Well,  let  her  break  down,  and  I  shall  do  it  yet !  He  can't  buy 
me  now,  at  any  price.  But  I  shall  sell  him  at  just  what  price  I 
please  !  Who'll  buy  on  these  terms  ?  Who  ]  Why  the  devil, 
to  be  sure  !  Who  °lse  V 


CHAPTER    XX  i  A. 

Soffri,  che  poco 

Ti  rimane  a  soffrir.    Non  ti  spaventi 
L'aspetto  delia  pena  :  il  mal  peggiore 
E  de'  mali  il  tmior."  ARTASERSB. 

IT  required,  in  fact,  no  effort  on  the  part  of  Don  Balthazar  to 
procure  the  pardon  of  Mateo,  the  outlaw,  froic  the  hands  of  the 
Adelantado.  He  had  only  to  place  the  paper  before  hjm,  with 
a  crowd  of  other  papers,  for  signature,  and  the  sign-manual  was 
set  down  without  scruple  or  examination.  This  was  the  usual 
process.  It  was  thus  that,  at  the  entreaty  of  Olivia,  the  Lady 
Isabella  had  already  procured  the  pardon  of  the  mestizo  ;  and 
thus  it  was  that  the  affair  had  escaped  the  knowledge  of  the 
knight.  In  neither  instance  had  De  Soto  been  made  aware  of 
wiiat  he  had  done,  and  Don  Balthazar  was  thus  naturally  kept 
ignorant  of  the  peculiar  interest  which  his  niece  had  manifested 
in  the  outlaw,  and  of  her  intimacy  with  him.  He  was  utterly 
•without  suspicion  in  this  quarter  ;  the  consequence  of  his  impres- 
sion of  her  ignorance  of  affairs,  and  of  her  utter  indifference  and 
apathy  upon  most  subjects.  The  pardon  procured,  the  Don  pre- 
pared the  legal  discharge  of  Mateo,  and  his  sister,  from  the  ser- 
vice of  his  ward.  He  signed  the  latter  papers  as  her  guardian, 
and,  as  usual,  without  consulting  her.  The  deed  of  emancipa- 
tion which  she  had  prepared  was,  in  fact,  void,  in  consequence 
of  her  minority  ;  and  this  was  quite  as  well  known  to  Mateo  as 
to  herself.  But  it  was  understood  between  them  that  he  was  to 
keep  aloof  until  she  should  reach  maturity,  when  he  could  boldly 
defy  the  uncle.  The  parties  did  not  deceive  themselves,  or  one 
another ;  and  though  the  discharge  of  Olivia  was,  for  the  pres- 
ent, of  less  value  than  that  of  Don  Balthazar,  still  Mateo  much 
preferred  to  receive  the  boon  at  her  hands,  though  of  questiona- 
ble validity,  than  to  incur  any  obligation  at  the  hands  of  a  person 
whom  he  meditated  to  murder  at  the  first  decent  opportunity. 
Armed  with  the  desired  papers.  Mateo  did  not  think  proper  to 
keep  his  engagement  with  the  Don.  He  was  to  have  met  him 
in  the  thicket,  where  we  have  already  beheld  their  hits  rvicw, 
but  the  knight  waited  for  him  in  vain ;  and,  after  lingering 
for  an  hour,  becoming  impatient,  he  took  his  way  towards 
the  summer-house,  and  thence  proceeded  to  the  dwelling.  He 
little  dreamed  that  the  person  he  hoped  to  see  was  closely 

(350) 


SECRET  PURPOSES.  351 

following  and  observing  all  his  movements.  So  was  Juana. 
Mateo  had  counselled  the  latter  carefully  on  certain  points, 
and  the  watch  maintained  by  one  or  the  other  of  them  left 
no  single  proceeding  of  Don  Balthazar,  when  at  home,  unno- 
ticed !  While  at  the  summer-house,  the  Don  had  divested  him- 
self of  the  papers  with  which  he  had  proposed  to  meet  the  out- 
law. As  it  was  in  this  neighborhood  that  he  still  calculated  to 
encounter  him,  he  thought  to  have  them  always  ready  by  leaving 
them  there.  He  fastened  them  up  securely  in  a  huge  chest 
which  he  kept  in  a  closet.  But  Mateo,  who  watched  all  his  steps, 
soon  wormed  his  way  into  the  closet  and  the  chest.  He  was 
armed  with  a  bit  of  iron  wire,  his  machete,  and  a  small  drill  and 
mallet;  and  it  was  surprising  with  what  rapidity  he  persuaded 
locks  to  give  up  their  secrets.  Such  is  the  advantage  of  being  in 
high  practice,  wherever  the  arts  are  concerned.  The  worthy  outlaw, 
however,  did  not  immediately  possess  himself  of  the  documents 
of  the  Don.  For  the  present,  he  was  content  to  know  where 
they  were  hidden.  He  preferred  that  their  loss  should  not  be 
discovered  until  the  last  moment,  when  the  Don  should  be 
ready  for  departure  to  Florida,  and  he  to  his  native  moun- 
tains. He  had  much  yet  to  do  in  Havana,  and  did  not  care  to 
be  disturbed  again  by  the  alguazils,  while  pursuing  his  pleasant 
occupations.  He  continued  in  the  employment  of  Olivia ;  and 
her  present  purposes,  steadily  pursued,  with  a  mind  now  pro- 
foundly concentrated  on  the  one  object,  found  him  enough  to  do. 
But  there  was  a  slight  interruption  to  their  intercourse.  In  car- 
rying out  his  purposes,  Don  Balthazar,  as  we  have  seen,  had  re- 
solved to  send  his  niece  to  the  plantation, — the  hacienda,  or 
country-seat  of  his  ward  at  Matelos, — where  her  large  estates 
chiefly  lay.  This  was  in  order  to  his  own  security.  Here,  he 
might  best  practise  against  her  peace — perhaps  her  life.  Here, 
she  would  be  removed  from  frequent  association  with  the  Lady 
Isabella,  who  had  taken  a  greater  interest  in  her  happiness  than 
Don  Balthazar  cared  to  see,  or  to  encourage.  She  was  to  pro- 
ceed thither  under  the  conduct  of  De  Sinolar,  whose  hacienda  was 
contiguous,  and  whom  Don  Balthazar  was  not  unwilling  that 
Olivia  should  marry.  De  Sinolar  was  his  creature, — silly  crea- 
ture, as  we  have  seen, — vain  and  weak, — who  feared  the  Don, 
and  whom  the  latter  regarded  as  a  useful  mask  to  shelter  his 
own  proceedings.  If  she  would  wed  with  De  Sinolar,  she  might 
live ;  and  the  latter  was  to  be  allowed  every  opportunity  of 
winning  his  way  to  her  favor.  Don  Balthazar,  however,  had  now 
but  little  hope  of  this,  unless  through  her  utter  despair  of  the 
kuight  of  Portugal,  and  the  desperation  of  soul  which  his  own 


352  VASCONSELOS. 

cruel  conduct  had  occasioned.  The  expedition  once  departed, 
carrying  with  it  Don  Philip,  and  the  uncle  was  satisfied  to  trust 
somewhat  to  time.  Time  might  effect  his  object,  and  if  not — 
the  dagger !  This  latter  remedy  was  to  be  entrusted  to  Mateo; 
unless,  indeed,  Sylvia  should  prove  herself  as  expert  with  the 
bowl  as  her  predecessor,  Anita,  had  been. 

According  to  these  plans,  Olivia  was  suddenly  apprised  that 
she  was  to  travel  that  very  day  under  the  escort  of  De  Sinolar. 
She  was  silently  submissive.  She  was  not  allowed  words  of 
parting  with  her  friends,  the  Lady  Isabella,  or  the  fair,  frail  wife 
of  Nuno  de  Tobar.  To  this  also  she  was  reconciled.  She  had 
no  desire  to  see  either.  She  had  survived  friendship.  Mere 
society  had  no  attractions  for  her,  and  nothing  compensative. 
She  lived  but  for  a  single  purpose,  and  this  was  of  a  nature  to 
be  rather  helped  than  defeated  by  her  removal  from  the  city ; — 
that  is  to  say,  by  her  seeming  or  temporary  removal.  She  was 
prepared  to  go, — but  her  secret  resolution  was  taken  to  return ; 
and  that,  too,  before  the  sailing  of  the  expedition.  We  shall  see, 
hereafter,  in  what  manner.  Don  Balthazar  was  rather  surprised- 
at  her  submission.  He  had  expected  a  struggle.  But  she  heard 
his  requisition  with  a  cold  indifference,  and  answered  it  with  a 
single  word  of  resignation. 

"  I  am  ready  now !" 

He  was  surprised,  and  said  something  about  her  friends. 

"  Would  you  not  desire  to  see  and  part  with  the  Lady  Isa- 
bella,— with  Leonora  de  Tobar  ?" 

"  No  !     What  are  friends  and  friendship  to  me  ?" 

"  It  might  be  done  in  an  hour.     It  were  proper,  perhaps." 

"  I  do  not  care  to  see  them." 

"  Well,  as  you  please  !  You  can  see  them  as  frequently  as 
you  think  proper  after  I  am  gone.  Indeed,  as  Leonora  will  re- 
main in  Cuba,  you  might  have  her  as  your  guest." 

Olivia  was  silent.     The  uncle  proceeded  : 

"  De  Sinolar  has  gallantly  undertaken  to  be  your  escort,  and 
you  can  command  his  services  during  my  absence,  in  any  mat- 
ter in  which  you  may  need  assistance.  He  has  kindly  volun- 
teered his  good  offices.  I  have  given  him  instruction." 

"  When  does  the  expedition  sail  1 "  she  coldly  inquired. 

"  Within  two  days.  We  are  all  ready,  and  the  wind  promises 
to  be  fair." 

She  asked  no  more. 

"  When  we  separate,  Olivia,  it  may  be  forever  !  I  go  upon 
an  expedition  of  great  peril.  I  may  never  return.  Do  you  for- 
give me,  child  ?  " 


ADVICE  TO   A  WOOER.  353 

A  terrible  scorn  rose  into  her  stony  gaze. 

"  Forgive  !"  she  exclaimed — "  Forgive  !: — ask  it  of  the  ghost 
of  my  murdered  happiness  ; — at  the  grave  of  my  wronged  inno- 
cence ;  of  the  hope  which  you  have  banished  from  my  heart  for- 
ever ;  of  all  that  I  was,  and  might  have  been,  and  am  not !  Ask 
it  not  of  me,  as  I  am,  Don  Balthazar,  lest  I  curse  you  with  a 
doom!" 

"  We  are  now  to  part !  Perhaps  never  again  to  meet.  My 
life  is  henceforth  to  be  one  of  constant  peril.  You  may  hear  of 
me  as  a  victim  to  the  darts  and  fiery  tortures  of  the  Apalachian  ! 
Will  you  not  forgive  me,  Olivia1?" 

"  Play  the  hypocrite  with  me  no  longer.  Do  I  not  know  that, 
in  your  soul,  you  scorn  the  very  prayer  for  forgiveness  which 
your  false  lips  utter  ?  Hence  !  Better  that  we  should  both 
forget !  So  long  as  I  can  remember,  it  is  not  possible  to  forgive  !" 

And  little  more  was  spoken  between  them,  ere  they  separated. 
De  Sinolar  soon  made  his  appearance.  The  vehicle  was  packed, 
and  stood  in  readiness  at  the  door.  Don  Balthazar  conferred 
privately  with  De  Sinolar. 

"  You  will  have  her  pretty  much  under  your  own  eye  at  the 
hacienda.  You  will  have  her  to  yourself.  Play  the  bold  lover, 
if  you  would  succeed. with  such  a  woman.  Make  her  your  own 
at  every  hazard.  These  Knights  of  Portugal  once  gone,  she  will 
show  herself  less  coy." 

De  Sinolar  curled  his  moustache,  and  grinned  gratefully 

"  I  flatter  myself,  sefior " 

"  Pooh,  pooh !  Don't  flatter  yourself,  man  !  Flatter  her  !  The 
man  who  perpetually  flatters  himself  offends  everybody.  This 
is  your  fault.  It  is  in  the  way  of  your  own  successes." 

The  carpet  knight  was  a  little  discomfited  by  this  abrupt  speech, 
but  he  contrived  to  conclude  his  sentence,  and  succeeded  in  say- 
ing that  he  flattered  himself  he  should  finally  succeed  in  flattering 
her  ;  and  so  they  parted.  It  was  but  half  a  day's  journey  to  the 
hacienda.  We  find  nothing  to  interest  us  along  the  route, 
since  the  wit  and  humor  of  De  Sinolar  are  of  a  sort  which  is  too 
ethereal  to  keep,  or  too  heavy  to  be  borne,  and  Olivia  could  only 
listen,  and  did  not  reply  to  his  gallantries.  But  we  must  not 
forget  that  Juana  accompanied  her  mistress,  and  that  Mateo,  on 
a  fine  horse,  hovered  along  the  track,  keeping  the  party  in  sight, 
but  being  himself  unseen.  It  was  some  consolation  to  Olivia, 
that  Sylvia  was  no  longer  her  guardian.  The  poor  girl  never 
dreamed  that  she  was  destined  to  follow  her;  having  been  kept 
back  only  to  receive  the  final  instructions  of  her  master  in  re- 
spect to  his  victim. 


354:  VASCONSELOS. 

The  hacienda  of  Matelos  was  reached  in  safety  about  dusk. 
Olivia,  pleading  fatigue,  dismissed  Don  Augustin  to  his  o\vn 
abode,  which  lay  contiguous,  on  an  adjoining  plantation.  She 
retired  to  her  chamber  for  awhile,  but  it  was  not  long  before 
Mateo  made  his  appearance.  Certain  signals,  previously  agreed 
upon,  announced  his  arrival  to  Juana,  and  he  was  stealthily-con- 
ducted by  that  damsel  to  the  chamber  of  her  mistress.  Olivia 
was  sitting  with  hands  clasped,  and  eyes  fixed  upon  a  picture  of 
the  Virgin  which  hung  upon  the  wall  opposite,  when  the  outlaw 
entered  the  room.  She  at  once  rose. 

"  You  are  true,  Mateo,  and  I  thank  you.  You  must  now  get 
the  horses  ready." 

"  Ah  !  my  lady,"  said  the  outlaw,  "  I  have  been  thinking  you 
can  never  stand  this  trial.  It  is  a  hard  life  you  propose  to  under- 
take. You  will  never  have  the  strength  for  it.  You  do  not 
know  the  toil,  the  danger.  You  wijl  surely  sink  under  it ;  you 
will  perish,  and  there  will  be  no  one  to  help  you." 

"  I  shall  need  no  help,  Mateo ;  and  if  I  perish,  it  is  only  an 
end  of  a  long  and  terrible  struggle." 

"  But  why  engage  in  this  struggle,  Senorita  1    Of  what  avail  ?" 

"The  easiest  form  of  death  is  in  the  struggle,  Mateo.  Do  not 
argue  with  me  now ;  1  am  resolved." 

"  But,  I  must  argue,  dearest  mistress — I,  who  know  what  are 
the  toils  of  such  a  life,  day  by  day,  on  the  back  of  a  horse." 

"  You  forget,  Mateo,  that  my  father  taught  me  how  to  ride ; 
that  I  have  been  a  horse-rider  from  my  childhood,  over  the  rug- 
gedest  mountain  passes.  I  fear  no  steed  that  was  ever  bridled. 
My  poor  father,  you  remember  him,  Mateo  ?" 

"  Ah  !  my  lady,  do  I  not?  Had  he  lived,  I  should  never  have 
been  a  bad  fellow ;  never  been  an  outlaw, — never  shed  human 
blood." 

"  Well,  as  he  had  no  son,  he  made  a  boy  of  me,  and  taught  me 
the  exercises  of  boyhood.  He  showed  me  the  uses  of  the  match- 
lock and  the  cross-bow,  until  I  ceased  to  fear  the  shock  and  the  re- 
port of  fire-arms,  and  could  bring  down  the  mountain  eagle  with 
my  arrows.  I  have  grown  into  the  woman,  but  1  have  never  lost 
the  spirit,  nor  the  practice,  which  he  taught  me.  Toil,  trial,  dan- 
ger, have  no  fears  for  me.  I  am  bolder  and  braver  now  than  ever 
Do  you  have  no  apprehensions,  my  good  Mateo  ;  for  there  is  tha* 
in  my  soul  now  which  makes  me  laugh  at  danger." 

The  outlaw  continued  to  expostulate,  when  she  abruptly  anc. 
Bternly  silenced  him. 

'•  Have  you  not  sworn  to  serve  me,  Mateo,  without  question- 
ing ]"  she  demanded,  with  an  air  of  calm  authority. 


RESOLUTION   OF   DESPAIR.  355 

"  And  have  I  not  done  so,  dearest  lady  1  I  will  still  do  as  you 
require,  if  you  command  me ;  but  I  would  entreat  you — would 
show  you  what  it  is  that  you  propose  to  encounter  and  to  under- 
take."' 

'•  No  more  !  You  mean  well ;  but  you  know  not.  You  speak 
in  vain.  I  am  resolved!  My  life  is  on  it,  Mateo!  I  live  now 
for  the  one  object  only,  and  this  executed,  I  shall  gladly  lay  down 
my  life.  But  while  1  do  live,  I  must  thus  work,  thus  toil,  thus 
peril  life-,  and  know  life  only  in  this  peril.  If  there  be  storm  and 
strife,  and  battle — ay,  blood — it  is  even  so  much  the  better.  I 
can  now  better  endure  the  tempest  than  the  calm.  It  is  in  this 
calm,  that  1  can  encounter  a  thousand  terrors  worse  than  any 
which  the  storm  may  bring." 

He  would  have  still  entreated,  but  she  spoke  decidedly. 

"  No  more  !  1  tell  you,  I  am  resolute  as  death.  Do  as  I  com- 
mand you,  or  tell  me  that  you  will  do  nothing.  I  will  then  seek 
some  servant  who  thinks  himself  less  wise,  and  proves  more 
faithful." 

"  Ah  !  be  not  angry  with  me,  dear  Senorita.  I  am  not  wise, 
and  1  am  faithful.  None  can  be  more  so.  It  is  because  of  my 
love  for  you " 

"  Enough,  Mateo ;  I  do  not  doubt  your  fidelity ;  and  to  any 
other  woman, — to  a  woman  in  any  less  wretched  case  than  mine, 
your  counsel  would  be  sensible  and  proper.  But — you  know, 
perhaps,  Mateo — but  mine  is  not  the  common  fate  of  woman  ! 
If  you  knew  my  misfortune,  you  must  know  that  I  am  doomed 
to  a  ceaseless  agony  while  I  live ;  and  that  toil,  and  physical  pain, 
arid  death  itself,  have  no  tortures  such  as  I  must  inevitably  en- 
dure in  life  !  I  have  resolved !  Let  me  hear  if  I  may  hope  for 
further  help  from  you1?" 

The  big  tear  gathered  in  the  eye  of  the  Mestizo,  as  he  looked 
into  her  sad,  wan  face.  She  was  tearless ;  and  the  intense  spirit- 
ual gleam  from  her  eyes  almost  filled  him  with  terror.  How 
should  such  a  glare, —  such  an  expression — gleam  forth  from  such 
beautiful,  such  childlike  eyes!  How  should  such  a  resolution 
inform  so  delicate  a  creature ! 

"  I'd  sooner  fight  for  you,  a  thousand  times,"  he  exclaimed : 
"  but  I'm  ready  to  do  what  you  ask,  and  what  I  promised." 

"•  Do  it,  then  !  We  have  little  time  to  lose.  Leave  me,  and 
procure  the  horses." 

He  obeyed  sadly,  and  in  silence.  The  horses  were  soon  ready, 
and  she  was  apprised  of  it.  She  did  not  delay.  One  moment  in 
silent  prayer  she  sunk  down  before  the  image  of  the  Madonna, 
then  rose  with  a  step  of  firmness  and  walked  forth  into  the  grove 


856  VASCONSELOS. 

•where  the  saddled  steed  was  in  waiting.  It  was  an  hour  short  of 
midnight.  The  stars  were  few  in  heaven.  The  gusts  swept,  with 
a  sad  soughing,  through  the  woods,  and  seemed  filled  with  mourn- 
ful and  warning  voices.  The  ear  of  the  outlaw  was  sensible  to 
the  sounds,  and  his  more  superstitious  nature  held  them  to  be 
ominous.  But  Olivia  seemed  not  to  hear  or  heed  them.  She 
wrung  the  hand  of  Juana  in  silence,  leapt  into  the  saddle,  and,  fol- 
lowed by  Mateo  on  horseback  also,  she  turned  once  more  in  the 
direction  of  Havana.  Juana  remained  behind  to  plead  the  indis- 
position of  her  mistress,  and  baffle,  for  awhile,  the  curiosity  of  De 
Sinolar. 

The  wayfarers  rode  hard  and  fast.  In  alow  and  seemingly  un- 
occupied hovel  in  the  suburbs  of  the  city,  we  find  Olivia  safely 
housed  before  daylight.  The  place  had  been  selected  and  pro- 
cured for  her  by  Mateo,  agreeably  to  previous  instructions.  There 
was  a  rude  couch,  upon  which  she  rested  for  awhile.  But  not  long. 
She  was  soon  up  and  busy.  Mateo  was  summoned,  and  was 
promptly  in  attendance. 

"  Are  all  the  things  here,  Mateo  f 

"  You  will  find  them  in  that  box,  my  lady." 

"  Have  you  prepared — • — " 

"  Every  thing,  Senorita.  I  have  done  all ;  I  am  ready  for  all 
things  :  but  O  !  my  lady,  it  is  not  yet  too  late." 

"  What  do  you  fear,  Mateo  ]" 

"  Every  thing  for  you,  Senorita — nothing  for  myself.  Nay, 
if  you  will  believe  me,  I  would  sooner  cut  for  you  the  throats  of 
a  dozen  such  villains  as  Don  Balthazar,  than  see  you  go  on  this 
fearful  business." 

"  Nay,  Mateo,  I  wish  no  throats  cut  for  me !  Still  less  that 
of " 

"  Oh !  if  you  would  only  listen  to  me,  Senorita." 

She  answered  with  a  strange  smile,  and  so  calmly,  that  he  was 
disturbed  by  the  very  repose  of  her  voice  and  manner,  as  it  ar- 
gued a  resolution  so  utterly  immovable. 

"  Well, — what  would  you  say,  Mateo  ?" 

The  poor  fellow  could  only  repeat  what  he  had  so  idly  urged 
already. 

"  Say,  my  lady,  say  ? — Why,  I  would  say  that  you  know  not 
what  it  is  you  are  about  to  undertake  and  undergo  !  That  you 
are  not  fit — not  strong  enough  ! " 

"  Is  it  fatigue,  pain,  peril,  loss  of  life,  the  agony  of  wounds  ? 
I  am  prepared  for  all  these  !  Must  I  repeat  to  you  that  I  should 
gladly  welcome  either,  or  all,  of  these,  if  1  could  lose  those  hor- 
rors which  oppress  me  now  !  Horrors !  but  if  you  know  not " 


VISION   OF   OLIVIA.  357 

"  But  if  you  are  discovered  1" 

u  Ah  !  that  is  the  terror !  that !" — after  a  pause  :  "  But  I  must 
brave  it !  1  tell  you,  Mateo,  I  cannot  remrin  here  !  I  cannot  sur- 
vive thus !  I  must  extort  from  new  griefs,  troubles,  privations 
and  dangers,  such  excitement  as  shall  obliterate  the  past !  I 
know  not  what  you  know,  of  my  cause  of  agony  ;  but  I  suspect, 
Mateo,  that  you  know  enough  to  understand  that  I  can  fly  to 
nothing  worse,  in  the  shape  of  woe,  than  I  have  already  had  to 
meet !  If  you  know  this,  be  silent !  If  you  are  prepared  to 
serve  me  faithfully,  be  submissive  !  Let  me  have  no  further  en- 
treaty." 

"  The  Virgin  be  with  you,  my  dear  lady,  and  bring  you  help  and 
succor !  I  go  to  do  all  as  you  have  commanded." 

With  these  words  he  left  her.  She  closed  and  fastened  the 
door  behind  him ;  and,  for  a  while,  stood  where  she  had  been 
speaking  ;  wholly  absorbed  in  thought ;  looking  like  a  statue  ra- 
ther than  a  breathing  woman  !  Then  she  spoke,  half  in  prayer, 
half  in  soliloquy  : 

"  Ay  !  the  Blessed  Virgin  !  Succor !  Succor  !  I  surely  need  her 
help  !  Would  she  have  come  sooner  !  Oh  !  how  wild  the  path- 
way seems  before  me  !  What  cloudy  how  torn  !  How  flitting 
with  the  wind :  and  what  a  crowd  of  changing  and  frightful  as- 
pects !  They  drift  along,  with  the  force  of  the  tempest,  which 
they  vainly  offer  to  resist !  Now.  they  cry  to  one  another  for  help 
and  succor  !  But  they  disappear,  even  as  they  cry,  swallowed  up 
in  the  fearful  void,  and  making  way  for  other  forms  and  aspects  ! 
There  is  no  sun,  no  moon,  no  stars ;  but  there  is  a  light  as  from 
the  eyes  of  death  ;  sepulchral,  and  filled  with  myriads  of  floating 
spectres  !  What  can  it  mean  !  Where  am  1 !  What  do  I  see  ? 
Ah  !  these  are  Hernan  de  Soto,  and  his  troops  and  followers ! 
That  is  Nuno  de  Tobar :  yonder  rides — Oh !  how  my  heart 
loathes  him  as  he  rides  ! — and  yonder  is — Oh  !  Blessed  Virgin, 
it  is  myself  I  see !  But  the  spectre  lives  and  moves, — and 
serous!  It  is  Don  Philip  that  charges  away  in  front — away! 
away  !  and — see,  how  the  boy  follows  him  !  Ah  !...." 

The  highly  wrought  and  febrile  condition  of  Olivia's  brain, 
must  account  for  her  apparent  vision,  in  which  she  sees  the  known 
and  the  conjectured  ;  in  which  she  mingles  a  past  knowledge  with 
her  own  future  purposes.  The  madness  lasted  but  for  a  brief 
space !  She  seemed  suddenly  to  recover,  and  sank  upon  her 
knees  before  the  image  of  the  Virgin.  She  now  prayed  inuudi- 
bl  v  ;  then  rose,  calm, — rigid  rather  in  every  muscle,  and  then  pro- 
ceeded to  unfold  the  contents  of  trunks  and  chests,  as  if  with  the 
view  of  making  her  toilet.  Let  us  leave  her  to  this  performance. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 


"  I  have  surely  seen  him  : 
His  favor  is  familiar  to  me. 
Boy,  thou  hast  looked  thyself  into  my  grace, 
And  art  mine  own." 


THE  eighteenth  day  of  May,  in  the  year  of  grace,  one  thou. 
sand,  five  hundred  and  thirty-nine  —  more  than  three  hundred 
years  ago  !  —  was  marked  with  a  white  stone  in  the  calendar  of 
Don  H  ernan  de  Soto  ;  for,  on  that  day,  his  squadron,  eight  large 
vessels  (small-sized  schooners  of  our  days),  a  caravel  (a  sloop) 
and  two  brigantines  —  things  with  scarce  a  deck  at  all  —  sailed  from 
the  noble  harbor  of  Havana,  with  their  prows  turned  east  in  the 
direction  of  the  opposite  coast  of  Florida.  But  it  was  rather 
late  in  the  day  before  they  took  their  departure;  and  though 
the  armament  had  been  supposed  in  readiness  several  days  be- 
fore, yet,  when  the  time  came,  there  were  many  things  that  re- 
quired to  be  hurried.  Of  these,  the  Adelantado  had  his  share  : 
and  Don  Balthazar  more  than  his  share  ;  all  needing  to  be  at- 
tended to,  and  sped.  But,  of  the  cares  of  these  great  personages, 
we  will  say  nothing  in  this  place.  They  scarcely  affect  our  nar- 
rative. We  shall  confine  ourselves  to  those  of  Don  Philip  de 
Vasconselos,  chiefly  ;  and  relate  how  he  was  provided  with  a 
Moorish  page,  almost  at  the  last  moment,  and  on  the  most  libe- 
ral terms. 

The*  sun  was  just  warming  the  tops  of  the  Cuban  mountains, 
when  the  good  knight  was  summoned  to  the  entrance  of  his  lodg- 
ings, to  hearken  to  an  unexpected  visitor.  This  was  no  other 
than  our  old  acquaintance,  Mateo,  the  outlaw.  Don  Philip  \\;is 
on  the  alert,  and  was  not  found  napping  even  at  that  early  hour. 
He  was  busy  brushing  up  his  armor;  condensing  his  wardrobe 
into  the  smallest  possible  compass  ;  preparing  his  steed  and  fur- 
niture ;  for  transfer  to  one  of  the  caravels  where  a  place  had  been 
appointed  him  ;  and  adjusting  his  affairs,  in  general,  for  that  re- 
moval which  had  now  become  inevitable. 

Don  Philip  met  the  outlaw  with  a  grave,  but  gentle  welcome; 
spoke  and  looked  him  kindly  ;  and  asked  what  he  could  do  lor 
him.  The  sight  of  the  features  of  the  Portuguese  knight,  seemed 
to  occasion  some  difficulty  in  the  speech  of  the  outlaw.  The 
sadness,  approaching  confirmed  melancholy,  which  his  face  wore, 

(358) 


THE  MESTIZO'S  GIFT.  359 

and  which  the  tones  of  his  voice  so  well  expressed,  reminded  Ma- 
teo  of  many  matters,  and  in  particular,  of  one  very  terrible  scene, 
in  which  he  had  beheld  the  brave  cavalier  wounded  to  the  very 
soul  ;  crushed,  as  it  were,  into  the  earth,  and  partly  by  his 
proceedings.  The  whole  scene  came  back  to  both  parties  as 
they  met ;  and,  as  the  gloom  darkened  on  the  visage  of  Don 
Philip,  the  mind  of  Mateo  became  agitated  and  confused,  in  a 
way  wholly  unwonted  with  the  rough,  wild,  half-savage  charac- 
ter of  the  Mestizo.  But  he  plucked  up  resolution  to  reply,  and 
in  tones  as  simple  and  unconstrained  as  possible. 

"  Well,  Sefior,  it's  not  so  much  what  you  can  do  for  me,  as 
what  I  can  do  for  you ! — You've  been  wanting  a  page  or  squire, 
Scftor,"  said  the  outlaw,  "and  you  haven't  got  one  yet?" 

"  It  is  true,  Mateo.  I  did  not  like  the  looks  of  any  that  were 
brought  me.  Can  you  help  me  to  one  ?  Do  you  know  ? " 

"  1  can  provide  you  with  a  Page,  Sefior ;  not  a  servant ;  a 
young  lad,  a  kinsman,  a  nephew  of  my  own  ;  brown  like  myself, 
but  the  child  of  a  free  woman  of  the  mountains ;  who  has  heard 
of  you,  and  would  like  to  see  a  little  of  the  world,  and  of  ar- 
mies, under  such  a  brave  leader  ;  but  he  can't  be  bought.  He's 
the  son  of  a  free  woman,  Sefior,  as  I  tell  you,  and  will  serve  you 
for  love,  not  for  money ;  and  will  bring  his  own  horse,  and  pro- 
vide his  own  means;  and  will  only  expect  to  be  treated  kindly, 
and  to  be  taught  the  art  of  war ;  and " 

"  Will  he  submit — will  he  obey  me?" 

"  Certainly,  as  a  page,  Sefior  :  and  will  be  happy  to  do  so.  I 
can  answer  for  all  that,  Sefior.  He  will  do  for  you,  I  am  sure, 
as  no  bondman  would  ever  do — will  be  faithful  always — and  be 
very  glad  when  you  employ  him,  for  he  is  pleased  with  you, 
Seftor, — he  has  seen  you  often,  and  admires  you  very  much  ! 
He  longs  to  go  with  you,  and  hasn't  let  me  rest,  for  the  last  week, 
for  urging  me  to  come  to  you  and  make  the  offer.  He  don't 
want  pay — he  has  means  of  his  own,  as  I  told  you  :  his  moth- 
er, a  free  woman  of  the  mountains,  Sefior,  has  property  ;  cattle 
and  horses ;  and  though  the  boy  is  quite  young,  and  slightly 
built,  yet  he  has  health  and  strength,  and  can  stand  a  good  deal 
of  trouble  and  fatigue ;  all  he  wants  is  to  be  with  you  ; — that  is, 
to  see  war  under  your  lead; — and  as  he's  the  son  of  a  free  wo- 
man, Sefior,  I  thought  it  right,  perhaps,  that  he  should  have  such 
desires,  and  should  learn  from  the  best  teacher." 

"  Bring  him  to  me,  Mateo." 

"  He  is  here  at  hand — I  could  not  well  keep  him  away,  Sefior. 
He  is  so  anxious  !" 

Here  the  outlaw  turned  away  ft.ra  moment  from  the  lodge  of 


360  VASCONSELOS. 

the  knight,  and,  stepping  down  to  the  highway,  he  gave  a  slight 
halloo.  In  sight,  stood  a  boy  holding  a  stout  and  spirited  steed. 
He  approached  at  the  signal,  leading  the  horse.  When  he  drew 
nigh,  the  knight,  who  had  retired  into  the  lodge  for  a  moment, 
reappeared,  and  gazed  steadily  upon  the  new-comer. 

"  Let  the  boy  fasten  the  horse  to  yon  sapling,  Mateo,  and 
draw  nigh,  that  I  may  have  some  talk  with  him.  He  has  a  fine 
horse,  Mateo." 

"  Yes,  Seflor,  I  raised  him  myself.  He  walks  like  the  wind, 
and  will  go  like  an  eagle  to  the  charge.  Suppose  you  step  out, 
and  look  at  him  closely,  Seiior.  You  must  love  a  fine  animal, 
Sefior,  and  this  is  one  for  a  brave  man  to  love,  without  feeling 
ashamed  of  his  choice;" 

How  the  heart,  already  vitally  sore,  applies  the  most  remote 
allusion  to  the  cause  of  its  secret  suffering!  This  casual  remark 
of  Mateo,  smote  on  the  sensibilities  of  Philip  de  Vasconselos, 
like  a  sneer.  But  the  face  of  Mateo  was  innocent  of  any  occult 
meaning;  and  Philip  showed  that  he  felt,  simply  by  an  increased 
solemnity  of  voice  and  visage.  He  followed  the  outlaw  out  to 
where  the  horse  stood,  still  held  by  the  boy  in  waiting.  The 
first  regards  of  the  knight  were  given  entirely  to  the  steed. 

"  He  is  certainly  a  very  fine  animal,  Mateo.  You  do  not 
praise  him  more  than  he  deserves." 

"  See  what  a  chest  he  carries,  Sefior,  broad  like  a  castle.  See 
•what  legs,  so  clean,  so  wiry.  There's  not  an  ounce  of  fat  to 
spare  from  those  quarters.  There's  not  a  long  hair  that  you'd 
like  to  pull  out  from  those  fetlocks.  And,  look  at  his  eye ! 
It's  like  that  of  a  greit  captain !  Cortez,  I  warrant,  does  not 
open  a  finer  when  he  looks  down  from  the  towers  of  the  Mexi- 
can. See  what  a  mane  of  silk  !  It  is  like  the  hair  of  a  Princess. 
And  he's  young,  but  a  quarter  over  four,  Sefior  ;  and  he  comes 
of  a  breed  that  lasts  till  forty." 

"  Unless  no  shaft  from  an  Apalachian  savage  cuts  him  short ;" 
was  the  remark  of  Vasconselos,  sadly  made,  as  he  turned  to  be- 
stow a  look  upon  the  boy. 

There  seemed  to  be  a  new  interest  springing  into  the  eyes  of 
Philip  as  he  gazed.  The  boy  was  of  fine,  dark,  bronze  complex- 
ion, looking  more  like  the  native  race  of  Indians,  than  the  Mes- 
tizo cross,  from  which  he  was  said  to  have  sprung  :  he  was  well 
made,  and  symmetrical ;  with  good  limbs  and  much  grace  of  out- 
line. But  Vusconst'los  <l\\vlt  not  so  much  upon  the  form,  as 
the  face,  of  the  youth.  This  seemed  to  rivet  his  attention  for 
awhile.  And  the  effect  of  his  gaze  was  to  disquiet  the  boy  him- 
self, and  Mateo,  his  uncle.  The  former  closed  his  eyes,  involun- 


THE   BASHFUL  PAGE.  361 

tarily,  under  the  steadfast  glance  of  the  knight ;  and  the  outlaw 
hurriedly  said  : 

"  The  boy  is  bashful,  Sefior :  he  has  never  before  stood  in  the 
presence  of  a  great  captain,  or  a  knight,  or  even  a  fine  gentle- 
man. He  is  from  the  mountains,  as  I  said,  and  don't  know 
about  the  fine  behavior  of  a  young  man  of  the  city,  who  is  al- 
ways expected  to  look  up,  you  know,  as  if  he  was  born  to 
say  to  the  sun — '  stop  a  little — I  must  talk  with  you.'  Now, 
Juan " 

"  Juan  ?— Is  that  his  name  ?" 

"  Yes,  Juan,  Senor  ;  his  mother's  name  is  Juana,  a  free  woman 

of  the  mountains,  Sefior " 

"  His  face  reminds  me  very  much  of  one  that  I  have  seen 
somewhere.  I  have  certainly  seen  him  before,  Mateo." 

"  Never  him,  Sefior, — never  !"  replied  the  other  sturdily. 
"Juan  has  never  been  to  the  city  before  last  week;  and  you,  I 
know,  have  never  been  into  the  mountains,  Sefior.  He  is  a 
mountain  boy,  your  Excellency, — son  of  a  free  woman  of  the 
mountains.  He  has  seen  you,  but  you  could  not  have  seen  him 
before.  But  what's  in  a  likeness,  Sefior  ?  You  will  see  them 
every  day,  every  where.  I  have  seen  thousands  of  likenesses, 
in  my  time,  for  which  there  was  not  the  slightest  bit  of  reason. 
Now,  Juan  looks  like  several  people  I  know,  and  you  may  have 
seen  them.  He  looks  very  like  Antonio  Morelos,  a  Creole  of 
Havana,  here.  You  must  have  seen  Am.  Then,  he  looks  mon- 
strous like  his  mother,  and  she  has  been  a  thousand  times  to  the 
city.  Oh  !  likenesses  are  nothing  now,  we  see  so  many.  You 
never  could  have  seen  our  Juan's  face  before,  Sefior." 

Mateo  talked  rapidly,  rather  than  earnestly,  as  if  against  time 
and  the  wind.  Vasconselos  did  not  seem  to  hear  half  what  he 
was  saying.  He  still  kept  an  earnest  eye  upon  the  boy,  as  if 
deeply  interested ;  evidently  communing  with  every  feature  of 
his  fac-e — as  far,  that  is  to  say,  as  he  was  allowed  to  see  them. 
But  the  boy's  eyes  were  cast  down.  lie  saw  nothing  ;  yet  felt, 
evidently,  that  the  keen  eyes  of  the  knight  were  upon  him. 

"  The  boy  is  young,  very  young,  Mateo,  and  I  very  much  fear 
will  hardly  be  able  to  stand  the  fatigues  of  such  a  campaign  as 
that  we  shall  have  to  endure  in  Florida." 

"  Oh !  he  is  strong,  Sefior.  His  looks  are  deceptive.  He 
comes  of  a  hardy  race.  He  can  stand  fire  and  water." 

"  But  he  seems  unusually  timid.  Art  thou  sure  that  he  has 
courage]  Will  he  look  danger  in  the  eye  ?" 

The  boy  seemed  disposed  to  answer  for  himself.  He  looked 
up — he  looked  Don  Philip  in  the  ove,  and  without  blenching. 


362  VASCONSELOS. 

Nay,  there  was  so  much  of  a  settled  calm — an  unflinching  reso- 
lution in  his  sudden  glance,  that  the  knight  was  struck  with  it. 

"  Certainly,"  quoth  he,  "  that  was  something  like  a  lightening 
up  of  the  spirit.  He  is  capable  of  flashes,  Mateo." 

"  Ay,  and  of  fire  and  flame  too,  Sefior  !  Faggots  !  Give  him 
time,  your  Excellency,  and  you  will  see  the  blaze.  But  he's 
naturally  bashful  when  you're  looking  on  him.  It's  not  a  bad 
sign  in  a  boy,  Seftor." 

"  No,  truly !  But  I  like  his  looks.  Mateo.  There  is  some- 
thing in  those  features  that  please  me  much.  Were  I  sure  of 
the  strength  and  courage  of  the  boy, — his  capacity  to  endure, — 
I  should  not  hesitate  :  I  should  feel  sure  of  his  fidelity." 

"  Oh !  that  I  can  promise,  Seftor.  He's  as  faithful  to  the  man 
he  loves  as  if  he  were  a  woman." 

"Pity  but  he  were  more  so!"  responded  the  knight  quickly. 
The  outlaw  felt  that  he  had  blundered,  and  he  promptly  strove 
to  recover  his  false  step. 

"  As  a  woman  is  expected  to  be,  your  Excellency  ;  that's  what 
I  mean!  I  can  answer  for  Juan  ;  for  his  courage,  his  hardihood. 
not  less  than  his  honesty,  Seflor.  He's  a  boy  of  good  princi- 
ples." 

"  Let  him  answer  for  himself!  Somehow,  Mateo,  I  am  a  little 
doubtful  of  your  answers.  You  are  too  quick  to  be  quite  sure  of 
what  you  say  !  Hark  ye,  Juan,  are  you  sure  you  desire  to  go 
with  me,  to  Florida  ?" 

The  boy  evidently  trembled  :  but  promptly  enough,  in  a  rather 
bourse  voice,  answered — 

"  Yes,  Sefior  !  I  wish  to  go  with  you." 

The  voice  was  a  strange  one,  yet,  its  tones  seemed  to  interest 
the  knight,  as  if  there  was  something  familiar  in  them  also. 

"  He  has  a  very  peculiar  voice,  Mateo." 

"  Yes,  Sefior,  strange  enough  to  those  who  heard  him  only 
year  ago.  Now,  his  voice  is  getting  the  cross  'twixt  man  am 
boy.  It's  rather  more  a  squeak  than  a  song,  your  Excellency. 
But  I  reckon,  Seflor,  we  all  underwent  some  such  change  about 
the  same  time  in  our  lives." 

Don  Philip.  But,  my  good  boy,  you  don't  know  the  toil  am 
trouble ;  the  daily  marching  in  that  country ;  where  there  ar 
no  roads ;  only  rank  forests,  great  swamps,  wild  beasts,  deadly 
reptiles ;  where,  half  the  time,  you  may  be  without  food ;  am 
perhaps,  quite  as  frequently  without  water. 

Juan.  Yes,  Sefior.  but  if  one  would  be  a  soldier,  it's  a  part 
of  his  education  to  taste  these  things.  I  am  t  j>  be  a  soldier,  you 
know. 


THE   KNIGHT  AND   BOY.  363 

Philip.  True ;  but  you  begin  early  !  There  is  a  certain 
hardening  necessary  before  one  can  be  a  soldier 

Juan.     This  campaign  will  give  it  me,  Sefior. 

Mutto.  You  see,  your  Excellency,  his  heart  is  set  on  being  a 
soldier. 

"True;  but  one  does  not  begin  training  for  it,  in  the  midst 
of  a  campaign,"  quoth  Philip,  not  heeding  the  outlaw. 

Juan.  You  forget,  Sefior,  that  I  was  bred  among  the  moun- 
tains. 

Philip.  If  you  had  been  bred  upon  the  plains,  iny  boy,  it 
might  be  more  in  your  favor,  going  to  Florida.  But  you  forget 
the  danger. 

Juan.     It  is  that  of  war,  Sefior,  and  I  am, not  afraid  to  die. 

Philip.  So  young,  and  not  afraid  to  die?  but  you  speak  what 
you  cannot  know  !  Bethink  you  of  the  terrors  of  the  strife ;  the 
savage  arrows, — bis  cannibal  sacrifices, — his  bloody  rages, — the 
scalping  knife, — the  fiery  torture  ! 

Juan.     Yet  you  are  to  encounter  them,  Sefior. 

Philip.  I  am  a  man,  boy,  accustomed  to  the  encounter ;  and 
life  is  to  me  of  little  worth.  I  have  survived  its  hopes. 

Juan.     And  I  have  none,  Sefior. 

Philip.  Thou  no  hopes,  at  a  season  when  the  heart  is  all  hope, 
or  should  be? 

Mateo.  Ah!  you  don't  know  Juan,  Sefior.  He  was  always 
a  saddish  sort  of  boy  ;  loving  the  glooms  ;  the  dark  woods ;  the 
lonely  rocks  !  He  never  played  like  other  boys !  He  was  never 
like  other  boys. 

Philip.  But  he  will  outgrow  this  sadness,  Mateo.  He  will 
grow  to  hopes.  It  would  be  cruel  to  peril  one  so  young,  so  ten- 
der yet,  in  such  a  warfare  as  that  with  the  Floridian  savage  ! 

Juan.  You  allow  nothing  for  the  will,  Sefior, — the  heart — 
nothing 

Philip.  Every  thing,  boy  !  will  and  heart  are  the  great  es- 
sentials of  all  achievement.  Can  it  be  that  thou  art  already  am- 
bitious ? 

Mateo.  That  he  is,  your  Excellency.  It's  his  great  folly, 
Sefior;  I've  told  him  so  a  thousand  times.  For  what  can  his 
ambition  do,  for  him,  a  mestizo  ?  Let  him  be  as  brave  as  Francis 
Pizarro,  and  as  wise  as  Hernan  Cortez.  who'll  give  him  com- 
mand of  armies,  and  authority  in  counsel  1  Here  am  I  now,  as 
brave,  1  fhink,  as  any  man  that  ever  stepped  in  leather;  yet 
what  am  I  but  an  outlaw  !  I  don't  think  I'm  wanting  in  a  sort  of 
sense  either,  yet  who  listens  to  me  I 

Philip.     The  boy  talks  sensibly,  Mateo,  yet  he  is  very  young 


364  VASCONSELOS. 

Mateo.  If  he  lives  much  longer,  Sefior,  he'll  grow  much  older. 
And  if  he  don't  live  long,  he'll  only  be  more  sure  of  being  young 
all  the  days  of  his  life. 

Philip.  Logical  enough,  Mateo ;  yet  I  have  no  wish  to  shorten 
his  days. 

"Try  me,  Sefior,"  murmured  the  boy,  in  very  low  but  ear- 
nest tones,  not  daring  to  look  up.  There  was  a  pleasant  change 
in  the  voice,  which  seemed  to  interest  the  hearer.  He  put  his 
hand  on  the  head  of  the  boy,  who  started  from  under  the  touch, 
and  visibly  trembled.  But  Philip  was  not  permitted  to  see  his 
face. 

"  Do  you  not  overrate  both  your  courage  and  your  strength, 
my  boy  ?  You  start  and  tremble  at  my  touch." 

"  'Tis  not  with /ear,  Sefior  !"  was  the  subdued  reply,  still  in 
the  same  low,  sweet  accents. 

"  No  !  For  why  should  you  fear  me,  child  1  But  you  seem 
naturally  timid — nervous,  I  should  say  ; — and  such  wars  as  that 
we  go  upon,  require  hardihood  above  all  other  things.  There 
must  be  no  agitation  when  the  trumpet  rings  the  alarm.  There 
must  be  no  faltering  when  we  are  bade  to  charge.  The  page  of 
the  knight  will  be  expected  to  do  good  service,  and  to  follow 
close  after  his  master,  even  if  he  does  not  emulate  him.  Canst 
thou  carry  a  lance,  Juan  V 

"  I  am  provided  with  a  cross-bow,  Sefior,  and  can  shoot.  The 
lance  will  come " 

"  Thou  art  so  eager  for  it,  Juan " 

"  Oh  !  take  me  with  you,  Sefior !" 

"  I  like  thee,  boy.  Thou  hast  something  about  thee  which  ap- 
peals strangely  to  my  imagination." 

And  the  good  knight  sighed  deeply.  His  instincts,  rather  than 
his  memory,  perhaps,  guided  his  asseverations.  The  boy  hung 
his  head  also.  He  dared  not,  at  that  moment,  look  up  in  the 
face  of  Don  Philip. 

"  I  will  take  thee  with  me,  boy,  and  fight  thy  battles,  if  need 
be ;  will  keep  thee  as  much  from  harm  as  possible,  and  share 
with  thee  my  spoils " 

"  1  ask  nothing,  Sefior  !"  said  the  boy  hastily. 

"  Oh !  no,  Sefior  !"  quoth  Mateo.  "  My  sister  is  a  free  woman 
of  the  mountains.  Her  sou  is  able  to  pay  his  own  way.  He 
wishes  to  go  to  see  service  and  learn  a  profession,  and  will  share 
no  one's  spoil.  He  hopes  to  make  his  own.  Besides,  my  sister 
is  resolute  that  her  son  shall  take  no  pay  for  his  services.  Re- 
member that,  Seftor.  She  has  provided  him,  as  you  see,  with  a 
good  horse.  She  has  given  him  a  well-filled  pouch  besides !  she 


THE   SAD   MASTER.  365 

has  made  all  provisions  for  his  support  and  equipment ;  and  I 
am  commissioned  to  get  even  the  needful  weapons  and  armor. 
So  you  see,  Sefior,  he  is  to  go  with  you  for  love,  not  for  money." 

"  For  love !"  murmured  the  boy. 

"  Be  it  so,  Juan,"  said  the  knight,  taking  his  hand.  "  Be  it  as" 
thou  wilt.  Thou  shalt  go  with  me,  boy.  Thou  shalt  be  my 
companion,  rather  than  my  page.  But  thou  wilt  find  me  a  sad 
companion,  Juan — a  melancholy  master.  I  tremble  for  thee, 
besides,  when  I  behold  thy  slight  frame,  thy  timidity,  thy  ten- 
derness and  youth.  We  must  be  true  to  each  other,  J  uan ;  for 
we  go  with  those  who  are  true  only  to  themselves.  We  must 
love  each  other,  Juan  ;  for  in  all  that  assembled  host,  there  will 
be  few  worthy  of  any  pure  heart's  love.  Wilt  thou  love  me. 
boy,  spite  of  my  gloomy  visage,  and  melancholy  moods  ?" 

"  I  will  love  thee,  Sefior — I  do  love  thee !"  was  the  murmured 
reply,  and  this  time  the  boy  looked  up.  The  glances  of  the  two 
met.  Then  it  was  that  the  knight  saw  how  large  and  expressive 
were  the  eyes  of  the  boy,  and  what  a  soft  and  dewy  brightness 
shone  through  the  dilating  orbs.  But  they  sunk  in  a  moment 
beneath  the  searching  gaze  of  the  knight.  They  sunk,  and  the 
boy  again  trembled. 

"  Truth,  Mateo,  he  is  bashful !  But  a  campaign  soon  cures 
that  infirmity.  Well^  Juan,  you  are  mine  now." 

And  he  gave  the  boy  his  hand,  who  kissed  it  passionately, 
murmuring — 

"Thine!  Thine!" 

The  knight  turned  away  to  the  tent  with  Mateo,  the  boy  lead- 
ing his  horse  and  following.  Before  the  close  of  the  day,  knight 
and  page  were  upon  the  waters  of  the  gulf,  rolling  forward  in  a 
good  vessel  towards  the  gloomy  shores  of  the  Apalachian. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

"  JBsop.    What  do  we  act  to-day  ? 
Latinm.  Agavi's  phrensy, 

Witli  Pentheus'  bloody  end." 

MASSI.VGKR.     The  Roman  Actor. 

BUT  we  are  not  yet  permitted  to  depart,  and  must  follow,  for 
a  brief  space,  the  fortunes  of  some  other  of  our  dramatis personce. 
The  novelist  cannot  do  always,  as  he  would,  with  his  own  cre- 
ations. He  cannot  linger  always  with  those  whom  he  prefers. 
We  must  suffer  the  Fates  to  exercise  their  controlling  agencies 
just  as  certainly  as  they  do  in  real  life,  and  among  the  living  peo- 
ple whom  we  know.  He  may  create,  but  he  cannot  control.  It 
is  upon  this  very  condition  that  he  is  permitted  to  create.  The 
Being,  once  filled  with  the  breath  of  life,  and  having  made  his 
appearance  upon  the  stage  of  human  action,  must  thenceforward 
conform  to  necessities  over  which  the  author  exercises  no  authority. 
These  will  have  their  origin  in  the  character,  the  actions,  and  the 
impulses,  of  his  persons  ;  in  the  events  which  flow  from  their 
performances  ;  in  their  conflicts  with  rival  actors  on  the  scene  ; 
in  their  strength  or  imbecility  ;  with  some  allowance  made  for 
the  operation  of  external  causes,  which,  we  are  told,  will  always, 
more  or  less,  affect  the  destinies  equally  of  mice  and  men  !  Let 
us  leave  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  and  the  dusky  page,  Juan,  to  their 
progress  over  the  blue  waters  of  the  gulf,  while  we  follow  the 
steps  of  Mateo,  the  outlaw. 

As  soon  as  the  Mestizo  had  closed  the  arrangement,  by  which 
his  "  nephew,  the  son  of  a  free  woman  of  the  mountains,"  had 
been  secured  a  place  in  the  service  of  the  knight  of  Portugal,  he 
disappeared  from  the  vicinity  of  the  Spanish  encampment.  lie 
had,  we  may  mention,  used  some  precautions  when  "  about  town." 
by  which  he  had  kept  his  person  from  all  unnecessary  exposure. 
He  had  still  some  decent  regard  for  the  existence  of  a  class  of 
persons,  the  Alguazils,  with  whom  he  entertained  few  special 
sympathies;  and,  in  leaving  the  lodgings  of  Vasconselos,  he  had 
stolen  away  into  covert,  by  the  most  secluded  passages.  A  sin- 
gle moment,  in  private,  and  under  the  cover  of  a  clump  of  tive<, 
densely  packed  with  shrubbery,  had  sufficed  for  his  parting  with 
Juan.  There  he  might  be  seen  wholly  to  change  the  manner  of 
speech  and  address  which  he  had  employed,  with  regard  to  tho 

(366) 


THE  OUTLAW'S  PURPOSES.  867 

boy,  when  the  knight,  his  master,  was  a  looker-on.  He  seized 
his  hand  and  kissed  it  repeatedly,  and  there  was  a  reverence  in 
the  expression  of  his  face,  and  in  the  words  of  his  mouth,  which 
denoted  the  existence  of  relations,  between  the  parties,  very  dif- 
ferent from  those  which  he  has  been  pleased  to  assert  in  the  con- 
ference which  has  been  reported.  On  leaving  the  boy,  he  con- 
cluded with  a  promise  to  see  him,  and  the  good  knight  of  Por- 
tugal, at  the  shore,  in  the  moment  of  his  embarkation. 

''It  may  be,"  he  said,  "that  I  shall  follow  you — nay,  go  with 
you,  to  the  country  of  the  Apalachian ;  for  I  long  to  see  great 
things  ;  and  be  where  the  good  knights  rush  to  the  meeting  of 
the  spears  !  It  may  be  !  We  shall  see !" 

When  they  had  separated,  and  while  Mateo  pursued  his  way 
through  the  woods,  alone,  his  lips  opened  in  frequent  soliloquy. 

"  Yes!"  quoth  he,  "were  it  not  for  that  devil  of  all  the  devils, 
Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro,  I  should  follow  the  expedition.  1 
would  take  lance  under  this  good  knight.  I  would  fight  like  the 
best  among  them.  He  hath  no  followers ;  but,  with  me,  he 
should  have  at  least  five.  I  am  as  good  as  any  five  of  these  men 
with  the  cross-bow.  And  would  I  not  have  a  good  horse  of  my 
own  1  worthy  to  be  straddled  by  any  cavalier  in  Don  Hcrnan's 
army  1  Ah !  it  would  be  glorious !  How  I  should  smite ! 
Verily,  I  have  a  strength  in  my  arm.  and  a  skill  with  horse  and 
weapon,  that  would  show  where  blows  are  thickest.  I  could 
clear  the  track  with  a  sweep  !  And  I  am  a  young  man,  and  in 
my  best  strength.  Jt  is  hard  that  I  should  have  nothing  great  to 
do  !  Very  hard  !" 

And  his  speed  was  accelerated ;  and  his  arm  could  be  seen 
waving,  as  if  he  were  about  to  make  a  mighty  swoop  with  the 
broadsword. 

"  But  1  dare  not  go,  while  that  black  wolf  is  with  the  army  ! 
He  hath  an  eye  to  see  through  me.  He  hath  already  known  me 
in  a  disguise  which  had  baffled  the  eyes  of  my  own  sister ;  and, 
failing  to  do  for  him  this  murder  of  the  good  knight,  he  would 
have  me  ya.rotled  without  a  scruple !  Would  his  throat  were  cut ! 
I  have  half  a  mind  to  slip  off  with,  the  rest,  and  put  my  knife  into 
him,  the  first  dark  night  he  walks  alone.  Were  I  now  to  meet 
him,  I  would  slay  him !" 

And  he  felt  in  his  girdle  for  his  machete,  and  looked  up,  and 
around  him,  with  glaring  eye,  and  distended  nostril,  as  if  al- 
ready snuffing  the  atmosphere  breathed  by  an  enemy.  But  all 
was  still  and  quiet  where  he  walked,  among  the  thick  groves,  in- 
clining to  the  hills,  and  now  beyond  the  city  suburbs.  It  was  still 
the  cool  of  early  morning,  and  the  whole  realm  of  nature  around 


368  YASCONSELOS. 

him  seemed  to  murmur  of  repose.  The  inanimate  life  of  the 
forest  declared  no  unrest — no  unruly  passions, — no  wretched 
discontent.  The  sky  was  now  beautifully  clear,  and  if  a  voice 
was  heard  besides  his  own,  it  was  that  only  of  some  very  tiny 
bird,  such  as  harbors  only  in  the  stunted  shrubbery,  where  a  sin- 
gle leaf  will  afford  instant  and  close  shelter  for  its  form.  But  the 
very  repose  spoke  to  the  violent  passions  of  the  outlaw,  with  a 
stimulating  accent. 

"  Ah  ! "  said  he,  "  if  I  only  had  him  here  ! "  and  he  clenched  his 
fist  savagely. 

"  But  I  must  get  those  papers !  He  will  be  in  the  camp 
soon  to-day.  He  will  be  among  the  last  to  sail.  In  an  hour,  he 
will  have  left  the  hacienda.  But  may  he  not  return  to  it,  in 
the  hope  to  see  me,  and  to  learn  that  I  have  done  his  work  1 
Perhaps  ;  but  hardly  !  He  will  scarce  have  time !  Humph ! 
Done  his  work !  I  must  do  my  own !  Verily,  if  I  meet  him 
there,  I  will  do  it  thoroughly  !  Shall  I  cut  throats  except  to  my 
own  liking  1  By  the  Blessed  Devils,  no  !  I  will  cut  his  throat 
if  I  can  !  And  if  I  do,  what  is  to  keep  me  from  the  expedition  ? 
I  am  a  man  for  the  wars.  I  will  see  how  the  lances  cross  with 
the  shock  of  thunder.  But  I  must  get  me  those  papers.  He 
little  dreams  that  I  know  their  hiding-place.  When  he  goes  to 
the  city  this  morning,  it  will  be  to  make  ready.  He  will  hardly 
return  to  the  hacienda.  Then  will  I  take  possession.  Juana 
knows  what  to  do.  When  the  ships  have  all  gone,  she  goes  off 
to  the  mountains.  She  will  be  doubly  safe  with  the  papers  of  the 
Sefiorita,  and  of  that  Uncle-devil.  She  shall  be  safe  !  Then,  if 
I  should  find  him  there,  and  feel  my  way  into  his  ribs,  we  are  all 
safe !  Oh !  If  I  should  only  find  him  there  !  If  he  goes  on 
this  expedition,  will  my  poor  lady  be  safe  a  moment  ?  No ! 
No  !  There's  no  blinding  his  snake-eyes  !  He  will  see,  and  I 
know  there  will  be  trouble — and  more  than  trouble  ; — there  will 
be  a  great  danger  always  in  the  path  of  the  good  knight  Oh  ! 
it  must  be  that  I  shall  split  his  black  heart  with  my  knife,  and 
let  out  all  its  poison  with  its  blood !  It  must  be,  when  there's 
so  much  good  to  come  of  it — when  there's  no  safety  for  anybody 
while  he  lives !  I  owe  him  a  stroke  of  my  machete  !  And  if 
the  Blessed  Devils  give  me  half  a  chance,  I  will  pay  him  with  a 
vengeance !" 

We  have  here  the  passions  of  the  outlaw's  soul,  and  the 
plans  of  his  mind,  fairly  mingled  up  together,  in  that  sort  of  web 
of  thought,  which  is  the  usual  mental  process  in  the  sensuous 
nature.  Don  Balthazar,  at  this  moment  little  dreamed  of  the 
danger  which  threatened  him.  While  Mateo,  making  his  way 


THE   DANGERS  OF  THE   DON.  369 

to  the  hacienda  of  the  knight,  was  thus  soliloquizing,  the  haughty 
Don  was  savagely  meditating,  in  his  turn,  upon  some  of  the  dis- 
appointments which  he  had  experienced.  That  the  Portuguese 
knight  still  lived,  was  a  present  annoyance,  and  a  vital  danger. 
He  now  knew  himself  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  this  cavalier,  so  far 
as  his  moral  position  was  concerned.  The  revelation  of  his 
secret,  he  well  knew,  would  be  fatal  to  his  reputation  in  Cuba, 
and  the  army  ; — so  long  as  the  government  of  both  was  adminis- 
tered by  persons  so  severely  virtuous  as  he  believed  Don  Her- 
nan  de  Soto  and  his  noble  wife  to  be.  True,  he  had  a  certain 
security  for  his  secret,  in  the  very  regard  which  Philip  de  Vas- 
conselos  evidently  entertained  for  Olivia.  So  long  as  she  lived, 
Philip  would  probably  be  silent,  in  respect  to  that  which  would 
hurt  her  reputation.  But  who  was  to  secure  the  unfaithful  guar- 
dian against  the  speech  of  Olivia  herself?  Her  passionate  blood 
had  evidently  escaped  wholly  from  the  control  of  her  tyrant. 
He  had  made  her  desperate,  in  making  her  desolate ;  and  he 
felt  that,  in  death  alone,  could  his  safety  be  made  certain.  He 
knew  the  nature  of  passionate  women  too  well ;  and  now  perceiv- 
ed that  Olivia,  in  this  respect,  too  much  resembled  her  Biscayau 
mother,  of  whom  his  experience  was  sufficiently  vivid,  and  who, 
he  well  knew,  in  the  madness  of  her  awakened  passions,  had 
neither  fear  nor  prudence,  nor  scruple  of  any  sort.  He  trembled, 
accordingly  ;  proud,  fearless  and  powerful  as  he  was ;  lest  the 
reckless,  or  the  thoughtless  word  of  either  the  knight  of  Portu- 
gal or  Olivia  de  Alvaro,  should,  at  any  moment,  hurl  him  head- 
long from  position,  making  him  odious  to  all,  and  subjecting  him 
to  legal,  as  well  as  social,  persecution.  Why  had  not  the  out- 
law, Mateo,  done  his  work  upon  the  knight  ?  There  were  surely 
opportunities  enough  ;  and  Mateo  was  too  well  known,  as  a  des- 
perado, to  suppose  that  he  had  either  moral  scruples,  or  personal 
fears !  The  question  troubled  the  Don,  since,  from  his  own  con- 
jectures, he  vainly  sought  an  answer. 

While  he  meditated  these  doubts,  an  aide  of  the  Adelantado 
arrived,  and  brought  him  despatches  from  Don  Hernan,  which 
required  his  early  presence  in  the  city.  He  dismissed  the  mes- 
senger with  a  reply  which  promised  that  he  would  soon  be  there, 
and  was  now  simply  making  his  final  preparations  for  joining  the 
expedition,  and  superintending  the  work  of  embarkation.  The 
officer  disappeared,  riding  fast,  and  was  seen  at  a  distance,  as  he 
left  the  hacienda,  by  the  approaching  outlaw. 

"  Demonios !"  muttered  Mateo,  between  his  closed  teeth, 
"  there  goes  7ny  last  chance  !  Had  I  come  an  hour  sooner  !" 

He  had  mistaken  the  rider  for  Don  Balthazar.  He  now  more 
16* 


370  VASCONSELOS. 

leisurely  continued  his  progress,  and  at  length  found  himself 
amidst  the  silent  groves  surrounding  the  summer-house  of  the 
knight, — that  lovely  and  secluded  lodge  which  had  been  so  fruit- 
ful in  events  affecting  the  destinies  of  some  of  the  persons  of  our 
drama.  It  was  fated  to  furnish  yet  another  scene  of  deep  inter- 
est to  the  parties. 

Don  Balthazar,  burning  or  preserving  papers,  arranging  arms, 
and  armor,  was  busy  and  thoughtful  in  his  chamber,  when  the 
old  hag,  Sylvia,  suddenly  burst  into  the  apartment.  He  looked 
up  at  the  intrusion,  with  a  haughty  frown  ;  but  she  was  not  ap- 
palled by  it.  She  was  wild  with  excitement ;  and  her  sinister 
and  withered  features  were  now  absolutely  fiendish  in  the  expres- 
sion of  rage  which  they  exhibited.  She  could  scarcely  speak,  so 
agitating  were  her  emotions.  \Vhen  she  did  succeed  in  giving 
utterance  to  the  cause  of  her  excitement,  she  was  surprised  to 
find  that  her  master  did  not  partake  of  her  wrath,  and  seemed 
lightly  to  listen  to  her  communications. 

"  Pie  is  here,  Seflor  ;"  she  exclaimed, — "  the  villain,  Mateo  ; 
the  outlaw;  the  murderer;  the  robber  of  the  old  woman  !  He 
is  here,  Sefior,  in  the  groves ;  he  is  even  now  gone  to  the  garden 
house !" 

Mateo  had  evidently  neglected  his  usual  precautions.  Satis- 
fied that  the  horseman  whom  he  had  seen  pushing  for  the  city,  at 
full  speed,  was  Don  Balthazar  himself,  he  had  been  at  no  pains 
to  make  his  movements  secret. 

"  Ah  !  he  is  here,  then, — Mateo  1"  and  the  knight  smiled  with 
a  grim  complaisance,  and  muttered,  sotto  voce — "  He  has  done  it, 
then,  perhaps,  and  comes  for  his  reward  !  Good  !  He  knows  his 
time,  and  has,  no  doubt,  done  it  efficiently  !  Well !  I  must  see 
him." 

He  at  once  rose,  and,  with  his  sword  only  at  his  side,  moved 
quickly  from  the  chamber.  Sylvia  was  quite  confounded  ;  and 
followed,  muttering  her  surprise  as  she  went.  Don  Balthazar 
never  once  looked  behind,  and  did  not  see  her ;  or  he  would 
have  dismissed  her  with  severity.  And  then  ! — But  we  must  not 
anticipate ! 

He  hurried  on;  and  so  rapid  were  his  movements,  that  the 
stiffened  limbs  of  the  old  woman  utterly  failed  to  enable  her  to 
keep  any  sort  of  pace  with  the  progress  which  he  made.  He 
was  soon  in  the  groves ;  had  soon  overpassed  the  space ;  and, 
walking  in  the  buckskin  shoes,  the  use  of  which  the  Spaniards 
had  borrowed  from  the  red  men, — wearingthem  commonly  when  in 
their  peaceful  avocations, — he  entered  the  garden  house  unheard. 

He  was  confounded  at  what  he  beheld.     The  outlaw  had  coolly 


THE   SURPRISE.  371 

taken  possession  of  the  premises.  He  was  on  his  knees,  in  the 
recess  where  stood  the  army  chest  in  which  Don  Balthazar  had 
stored  the  papers  which  the  outlaw  sought ;  his  head  was  fairly 
buried  in  the  chest,  and  he  was  busily  engaged  evidently  in  the 
examination  of  all  its  contents.  The  surprise  was  complete. 
For  a  moment,  the  knight  stood  motionless,  watching  the  cool 
intruder  !  He  saw  the  secret  of  the  proceeding  at  a  glance. 

"  The  scoundrel,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  has  seen  me  put  away 
the  papers  in  the  chest,  and  he  now  comes  to  steal  them,  without 
having  done  the  service !"  Then,  aloud,  advancing  as  he  spoke, 
and  laying  his  hand  upon  the  outlaw's  shoulder,  he  said — 
"  How  now,  rascal,  what  are  you  doing  here  ?" 
The  cool,  hardy,  daring  character  of  Mateo,  was  such  as  to 
render  surprises  less  dangerous  to  him,  and  less  difficult  of  eva- 
sion, than  would  be  the  case  with  most  people.  At  the  sound 
of  the  knight's  voice,  he  immediately  conceived  the  predicament 
in  which  he  stood.  But,  that  Don  Balthazar  spoke,  and  only  laid 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  when  he  might  have  run  him  through 
the  body,  as  a  first  salutation,  was  an  absolute  surrender  of  all 
the  advantages  of  the  surprise1;  and  afforded  to  the  bold  ruffian 
the  chance  of  operating  a  surprise  in  turn.  Certainly,  most 
persons,  taken  thus  at  advantage,  would  have  lost  something  of 
their  moral  resources  in  consequence  of  their  position.  But 
Mateo  was  not  an  ordinary  ruffian.  The  forbearance  of  the  knight 
showed  the  outlaw  that  the  former  would  not  be  likely,  under 
the  circumstances,  to  anticipate  resistance,  still  less  assault,  from 
the  person  he  appeared  to  think  so  completely  in  his  power  ; — 
and  the  exercise  of  his  thought,  to  this  effect,  at  such  a  moment, 
exhibited  Mateo  in  possession  of  a  more  deeply  searching  mind 
than  his  superior.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  with  a  rare  agility, 
which,  in  the  outlaw,  was  a  possession  fully  equal  to  his  wonderful 
strength,  he  suddenly  slipped  from  under  the  grasp  of  the  Don, 
and,  before  the  latter  dreamed  of  his  danger,  had  changed  po^i- 
tions  with  him  ;  had  thrown  himself  upon  him,  and  forced  him 
down  upon  the  chest,  with  his  head  buried  among  its  recesses. 
To  do  this  was  the  work  of  an  instant  only.  Fortunately  for 
the  knight,  the  assailant  had  not  a  single  weapon  in  his  grasp. 
He  had  been  using  his  machete,  in  prying  open  the  cover  of  the 
chest,  and  had  thrown  it  down  upon  the  floor  a  few  feet  distant. 
But  his  fingers  seemed  to  be  made  of  steel,  and  these  grappled 
the  throat  of  Don  Balthazar,  with  a  gripe  so  close  and  fierce, 
that  in  a  single  moment  of  time,  the  latter  had  grown  purple  in 
the  face,  while  his  eyes  dilated  wildly  in  their  sockets. 


372  VASCONSELOS. 

"  Villain,  would  you  murder  me '?"  gasped  the  cavalier,  vainly 
struggling  to  rise,  and  making  efforts  as  desperate  as  unavailing. 

"You  have  come  for  it !  I  thought  you  safe,  and  I  cursed  the 
Blessed  Devils,  that  helped  you  off.  But  I  did  'em  wrong  !  They 
have  delivered  you  into  my  hands  !  You  thought  to  buy  me,  did 
you,  to  kill  the  good  knight  of  Portugal  ]  I'll  kill  you  for  him  ! 
I'll  kill  you  for  the  poor  young  lady,  my  mistress  !  Oh !  didn't 
I  see,  with  my  own  eyes,  just  as  Don  Philip  saw  1  You  ought 
to  die  a  hundred  deaths !  But,  as  it's  only  once  for  you  as  for 
other  men,  the  sooner  you  taste  it,  the  sooner  you  get  your  wages. 
You  shan't  have  time  to  say  a  prayer ;  not  one :  for  you  shan't 
'  have  any  mercy  from  God  any  more  than  from  me  !  Die  !  I 
say;  die!  Die!  Die!" 

The  knight  succumbed  ;  he  had  neither  room  nor  strength  for 
struggle.  Hands  and  head  buried  in  the  chest,  and  face  down- 
wards, he  was  helpless !  The  hoarse  gurgle  of  his  breath  in  the 
throat  was  already  painful  to  the  ear,  and  the  writhings  of  his 
form  were  those  of  a  man  vainly  struggling  with  the  last  potent 
enemy ;  when,  suddenly,  a  sound  was  heard  by  the  writhing  and 
almost  suffocated  man, — a  sound, — a  stroke  ! — another,  and  ano- 
ther ! — and  the  gripe  of  his  enemy  relaxed ;  and  there  was  a  wild 
yell  above  him  ; — but  one ! — and  Don  Balthazar  felt  relieved. 
He  began  once  more  to  breathe.  He  felt  no  longer  the  incum- 
bent weight  of  the  gigantic  ruffian  upon  his  back !  Gradually,  he 
recovered  consciousness.  He  heard  a  voice  calling  him  by  name. 
He  felt  hands  officiously  helping  him  to  rise ;  he  felt  a  cool  but 
grateful  shock  of  water.  His  eyes  opened  to  the  day  once  more. 
He  looked  about  him :  slowly,  but  fully,  at  length,  his  glance 
took  in  the  objects  around  him.  He  found  himself  seated  beside 
the  chest,  from  which  he  had  been  rolled  out  rather  than  lifted ; 
and,  before  him,  stiff  in  death,  lay  the  corse  of  the  outlaw,  who, 
but  a  little  before,  had  been  so  completely  in  his  power  !  The 
old  hag,  Sylvia,  stood  at  hand  to  help  her  master,  and  soon  ex- 
plained the  agency  by  which  his  life  had  been  saved.  She  had 
followed  him  to  the  summer-house,  curious  to  see  and  hear,  and 
anxious  for  the  recovery  of  her  goods,  of  which  Mateo  had  de- 
prived her.  She  had  come  not  a  moment  too  soon !  Seeing  the 
knight's  danger,  she  had  caught  up  the  hatchet  which  was  em- 
ployed for  trimming  the  trees  and  shrubbery  of  the  grove,  and 
which  lay  in  the  verandah  of  the  summer-house,  convenient,  with 
saw  and  other  implements;  and,  without  a  word, -^governed  by 
instincts  which  always  prompt  to  decisive  action  where  the  mind 
has  few  thoughts  to  trouble  it, — had  stolen  behind  the  outlaw. 
He,  bent  only  on  strangling  his  enemy, — with  passions  which 


FATE   OF  THE   OUTLAW. 

deadened  the  sense, — heard  nothing  of  her  approach  !  A  -stun- 
ning blow  from  the  hatchet  made  him  conscious  of  his  danger, 
while  almost  taking  all  consciousness  away  !  He  was  not  allow- 
ed a  moment.  Stroke  aftel  stroke  followed,  with  the  hammer, 
as  with  the  edge  of  the  hatchet ;  delivered  without  regard  to  the 
appropriate  use  of  the  weapon,  but  delivered  with  such  a  will  as 
made  every  stroke  tell  fatally  ;  until  the  head  was  cleft  wide  ;  the 
skull  beaten  in ; — and  the  strong,  fierce,  wild,  savage  man  rolled 
upon  the  floor; — a  ghastly  spectacle  of  death;  wallowing  in  blood ; 
— in  a  moment,  torn  from  life;  in  the  moment  of  his  greatest 
strength  of  arm  and  passion ;  and,  by  the  withered  arm  of  a  des- 
pised old  woman  !  The  outlaw  knew  not  by  whose  arm,  or  by 
what  weapon  he  perished.  He  saw  not  his  assailant.  He  was  not 
allowed  to  turn  and  face  his  danger :  the  reiterated  blows  fell 
crushingly  and  fast,  and  he  sunk  under  them,  a  helpless  mass,  in 
less  time  than  we  have  employed  in  describing  the  event. 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

"  Master,  go  on,  and  I  will  follow  thee, 
To  the  lasi  gasp,  with  truth  and  loyalty." 

As  You  LIKE  IT. 

IT  was  a  goodly  hour  after  the  event,  before  Don  Balthazar 
had  sufficiently  recovered  from  his  sufferings  to  resume  his  acti- 
vity, or  comply  with  the  summons  of  the  Adelantado,  to  return 
to  the  city.  When  able  to  rise  and  look  about  him,  he  gave  his 
orders  with  customary  sang  froid,  for  the  removal  and  disposi- 
tion of  the  dead  body  of  the  outlaw,  which  was  publicly  exposed 
during  the  day,  and  finally  hung  in  chains  by  the  public  execu- 
tioner. But  this  exhibition  did  not  take  place  till  after  the  de- 
parture of  the  expedition  ;  and  the  good  Knight  of  Portugal,  and 
his  page  Juan,  were  somewhat  surprised  at  not  exchanging  fare- 
wells with  the  bold  outlaw,  as  he  had  promised  them  should  be 
the  case.  They  little  anticipated  for  him,  such  a  short  and  hur- 
ried transition,  from  the  extreme  health,  hope  and  vigor  of 
impetuous  anfl  eager  manhood,  to  the  stagnating  and  corrupting 
embrace  of  death ;  and  did  not  learn,  until  they  had  arrived  in 
Florida,  the  history  of  the  bloody  and  fatal  conflict  which  we 
have  narrated.  It  was  with  a  feeling  of  disappointment,  that 
they  turned  their  eyes  upon  the  wide  waste  of  waters  before 
their  prows,  from  the  crowds  upon  the  shore,  gradually  melting 
into  masses,  and  to  be  individualized  no  longer.  As  the  night 
came  on,  Philip  de  Vasconselos  threw  himself  upon  the  deck  of 
the  caravel,  musing  sadly  upon  the  stars  as  they  silently  stole 
out  to  sight,  and  hardly  knew  that  the  boy  Juan  crouched  as 
silently  behind  him.  There  was  scarcely  a  word  spoken  be- 
tween them  that  night,  yet,  somehow,  this  silent  attendance,  and 
simple  devotion  of  the  page,  strengthened,  at  each  moment,  the 
feeling  of  sympathy,  with  which  the  knight,  from  the  very  first, 
regarded  him. 

"The  boy  hath  a  heart,"  quoth  Philip  to  himself; — "he  can 
feel.  He  hath  not  yet  survived  his  tenderness.  But  it  will  not  be 
for  long.  The  world  rarely  leaves  us  long  in  possession  of  such 
a  treasure.  Were  he  wise,  now,  the  sooner  he  flings  it  from  him, 
or  puts  it  to  silence,  the  more  sure  were  he  to  escape  its  sor- 
rows. What  profits  it  to  us  that  we  have  the  wealth  that  keeps 
us  wakeful  ;•  when  sleep, — sleep, — is  the  best  blessing  that  we 

(374) 


COMMUNINGS   OF   KNIGHT  AND   PAGE.  375 

need,  and  ought  to  pray  for?  Oh !  that  I  might  shut  out  thought 
when  I  shut  mine  eyes ;  or  hush  the  heart  into  silence  that  only 
wounds  me  with  its  cries!" 

Thus,  the  knight.  The  boy,  no  doubt,  had  his  musings 
also.  They  both  slept  upon  the  deck,  nightly,  in  close  neighbor- 
hood, throughout  the  voyage.  Neither  spoke  much ;  but  they 
grew  silently  together.  If  Don  Philip  showed  himself  wakeful 
and  restless,  and  strode  the  deck  at  times  throughout  the  night, 
the  boy  watched  him  the  while,  and  sometimes  followed  his 
footsteps  ;  though  always  at  a  distance.  Gradually,  this  distance 
lessened  between  them.  The  page  followed  close  his  master. 
Voyagers  in  a  frail  barque,  upon  the  lonely  wastes  of  ocean, 
rarely  observe  the  restraining  barriers  which  keep  the  souls  of 
men  apart  on  shore ;  and  the  devotion  of  the  boy,  his  silent 
watchfulness,  his  unobtrusive  attention,  at  length,  won  the 
knight's  regard  ;  and  he  called  him  to  his  side  in  frequent  re- 
mark ;  and  he  bade  him  observe  the  stars ;  and  he  called  them 
by  their  several  names;  and  taught  him  their  uses  to  the  mari- 
ner ;  and  he  discoursed  of  the  winds  ;  of  their  mysterious  birth 
and  origin  :  how  some  of  them  were  gracious,  always,  in  regard 
to  the  seaman ;  how  others  brought  poison  to  the  atmosphere. 
Then  he  spoke  of  the  new  wild  world  of  the  Apalachian  to  which 
they  were  approaching,  and  of  which  Vasconselos  taught  the 
page  many  strange  things ;  all  of  which  he  had  learned  from  his 
own  experience,  in  the  famous  adventure  which  he  had  pursued 
along  with  Cabeza  de  Vaca  on  his  famous  expedition ;  —  thus 
teaching  his  young  companion  various  matters  of  which  one  so 
young  and  untutored  could  not  be  expected  to  know.  And  the 
boy  reverently  listened,  and  loved  to  listen,  though  in  sooth,  he 
knew  much  more  of  these  things  than  the  good  knight  supposed, 
and  had  enjoyed  much  better  sources  of  knowledge  than  might 
beseem  his  present  position.  Of  this  Philip  de  Vasconselos  hud 
no  conjecture,  though  he  could  see  that  the  page  was  by  no 
means  an  ordinary  bey ;  was  quick  to  conceive,  and  to  appre- 
hend ;  and  when  he  replied,  did  so  shrewishly,  and  with  an  intelli- 
gence and  thought  as  much  beyond  his  apparent  age,  as  beyond 
his  situation  and  race.  But,  it  was  in  the  delicate  sensibilities  of 
Juan,  that  the  knight  took  most  interest.  Now,  these  sensibil- 
ities of  youth  do  not  declare  themselves  usually  in  words,  or  in 
ordinary  fashion.  Where  the  heart  feels  quickly,  and  the  emo- 
tions wait  ever  in  readiness  for  the  summons,  words  are  not 
always  present  to  serve  the  wants  or  wishes  of  the  superior  en- 
dowment. This  mu^t  show  itself  to  the  eye  and  mind  of  him 
who  would  understand  and  love  it ;  and  it  requires,  accordingly, 


376  VASCONSELOS. 

mind  and  eye,  capable  of  reading  a  very  subtle,  profound  and  mys- 
terious language.  Now  the  secret  of  this  capacity  is  to  be  found 
only  in  very  active  susceptibilities,  on  the  part  of  him  who  reads. 
His  open  sensibilities  must  be  keen  and  watchful ;  he  must 
possess  a  gentle  spirit  at  the  core :  he  must  have  loved  and 
suffered ;  must  still  love  and  suffer ;  must  be  full  of  pity  and 
sorrow,  though  he  speaks  little  and  doth  not  complain  ;  and 
there  must  be  a  rare  delicacy  of  sentiment  in  his  soul,  so  that 
there  shall  be  no  change  in  the  aspect  of  the  other  whom  he  seeks 
or  esteems,  however  slight,  that  he  shall  not  see,  arid  comprehend 
at  a  single  glance.  Nor  wants  he  to  see,  except  to  be  solicitous  ; 
nor  comprehend  that  he  may  slight.  It  is  enough,  here  to  say, 
that  these  conditions,  by  which  kindred  spirits  seek,  meet,  and 
link  themselves  with  one  another,  were  all  found  in  the  respect 
of  Don  Philip  and  the  boy  Juan ;  so  that  a  look,  a  tone,  a  ges- 
ture, of  one  or  the  other,  did  not  fail  to  make  itself  fully  under- 
stood by  both,  and  to  command  at  the  same  time  the  most 
genial  sympathy.  And  it  shall  be  no  long  time,  after  such  is 
found  to  be  the  case  between  two  such  parties,  when  it  will  be 
impossible  to  maintain  cold  barriers  of  society,  keeping  them 
separate ;  when  the  two  hearts  shall  so  yearn  for  the  close  com- 
munion,  that  the  mind  shall  forget  all  the  distinctions  of  men 
on  land,  and  there  shall  be  a  gentle  law  controlling  both,  which 
shall  do  away  utterly  with  all  common  usages  of  constraint, 
substituting  others  of  a  finer  fabric,  more  subtle,  apparent,  and 
not  less  strong  ;  which  shall  grow  out  of  veneration  and  sympa- 
thy. Thus  it  was  that  Philip  de  Vasconselos  soon  learned — 
even  in  that  short  voyage — to  love  the  boy,  Juan,  as  a  boy  of 
truly  loyal  and  devout  soul ;  as  of  tender  and  sweet  sympathies; 
and  of  tastes  so  delicate,  as  equally  to  confound  the  knight  at 
their  possession  by  one  of  his  sex  and  race.  The  boy,  on  the 
other  hand,  might  be  supposed  to  love  the  knight  because  of  his 
justice,  his  noble  purpose  and  princely  thoughts ;  his  great  courage 
and  skill  in  arms ;  his  graceful  carriage ;  and  for  all  that  was 
manly  and  great  in  his  character.  It  might  be  that,  had  Philip 
been  of  the  other  sex,  these  traits  would  have  proved  less  im- 
posing in  the  estimation  of  the  page !  But  it  matters  little  as  to 
what  were  the  causes,  respectively  working,  by  which  the  two 
gradually  grew  to  be  so  well  attached  to  each  other.  Enough, 
that  such  is  the  fact,  and  that  they  held  frequent  communion. 
With  whom  else  should  Philip  commune?  Never  was  noble 
knight  more  desolate  of  soul,  and  lone  of  place,  than  he.  Often 
did  the  eyes  of  Philip  rest  searchingly  upon  the  bronze  features 
of  the  boy,  with  a  curious  and  tender  interest.  It  seemed  to 


THE  ARMAMENT.  377 

him  that  the  features  which  he  perused,  were  such  as  had  been 
known  to  him  before ;  that  they  were,  in  some  sort,  precious  to 
his  memory,  as  they  were  grateful  to  his  sight.  At  such  mo- 
ments, the  eyes  of  the  page  would  be  cast  down,  and  the 
knight  fancied  that  there  was  an  expression  of  emotion,  in  his 
countenance,  amounting  to  compassion,  when  he  was  conscious 
of  this  silent  study.  But  Philip  spoke  nothing  of  the  thoughts 
which  this  conduct  occasioned  :  yet  he  did  not  the  less  continue 
to  examine  the  features  of  the  youth ;  and  he  found  a  strange  se- 
cret pleasure  in  this  study.  Nor  did  he,  because  of  the  study, 
continue  the  less  to  teach,  and  to  commune  with  the  young 
mind  which  he  was  pleased  to  instruct.  And  thus  it  happened 
that  the  two  scarcely  sought,  or  found,  much  communion  with 
any  others  of  the  ship.  The  boy  knew  none,  of  all  in  the  army, 
but  Philip,  and  he,  with  few  friends  in  the  expedition,  had,  as  it 
happened,  none  of  them  in  the  same  vessel  with  himself.  Nuno 
de  Tobar,  his  only  close  associate  in  Cuba,  and  his  own  brother 
Andres,  had  both  been  taken  on  board  the  same  barque  which 
bore  the  Adelantado  and  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro. 

The  expedition,  according  to  one  of  the  accounts,  had  set  sail 
from  Havana  on  the  12th  of  May,  1539  ;  other  authorities  say 
the  18th  of  the  same  month.  In  all  probability  the  latter  was 
the  true  date.  The  fleet,  in  safety,  reached  the  coast  of  Florida 
on  the  25th,  being  seven  days  at  sea.  But  whether  it  sailed  on 
the  12th  or  18th,  in  either  case,  the  voyage  had  not  been  a  long 
one,  for  that  period,  in  those  capricious  seas, — and  in  that  season 
of  the  year.  The  fleet  entered  the  Bay  of  Tampa,  to  which 
De  Soto  gave  the  name  of  Espiritu  Santo.  The  soul  of  the 
Adelantado  was  greatly  lifted  at  the  success  of  the  voyage, — 
all  his  ships  arriving  in  good  order,  and  at  the  same  time  ; — and 
at  the  noble  flisplay  of  his  armament  on  the  shores  of  the  Apa- 
lachian.  Never  before  had  so  splendid  an  army  been  sent  from 
the  old  world  to  the  new.  It  consisted  of  no  less  than  a  thousand 
men,  of  whom  three  hundred  and  fifty  were  cavaliers  on  horseback. 
These  were,  many  of  them,  of  the  noblest  families  of  Castile. 
The  knights  were  provided  with  helmets,  and  cuirasses,  and 
shields,  and  steel  armor  ;  armed  with  swords  of  the  best  temper, 
and  with  well-tried  lances  of  Biscay  ;  a  complete  and-  admirable 
equipment.  The  great  body  of  the  troops  wore  coats  of  escaupil, 
a  sort  of  thick  buff  coats,  wadded  with  cotton,  the  better  to  resist 
the  fearful  arrows  of  the  red  men.  They  were  armed  with  ar- 
quebus or  crossbow,  and  carried  with  them  a  single  piece  of  ar- 
tillery. Fleet  greyhounds  were  provided  to  run  down  the  fu- 
i--,  and  well-trained  bloodhounds  were  held  in  leash,  to  do 


378  VASCONSELOS. 

good  duty  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight, — to  rend  or  devour  the 
naked  savages,  upon  whom  they  had  been  taught  to  feed.  ,  The 
chivalry  of  that  day  found  nothing  inhuman  in  the  use  of  such  an 
agency  in  war.  But,  as  mere  conquest  were  nothing  without 
taking  heed  to  its  acquisitions,  workmen,  and  the  necessary  ;ij>j>a- 
ratus,  were  carried,  for  the  purpose  of  smelting  and  refining  the 
precious  metals  which  they  confidently  expected  to  find.  Xor 
were  the  chains,  handcuffs,  and  collars  of  iron,  forgotten,  by  which 
their  captives  were  to  be  secured,  in  order  to  be  shipped  s;iti-!y 
to  the  plantations  of  the  Cuban.  Droves  of  cattle,  mules,  and 
hogs,  constituted  a  more  benevolent  provision,  made  for  the  wants 
of  the  expedition,  when  it  should  reach  the  country,  where  the 
hogs  and  cattle  were  to  be  let  go  free. 

Accustomed  to  the  easy  conquest  of  such  feeble  tribes  as  the 
Peruvian,  De  Soto  felt  that  such  an  armament,  so  far  surpas>ing 
those  of  Cortez  and  Pizarro,  was  quite  equal  to  the  conquest  over 
the  whole  country  of  the  Apalachian.  Never  a  doubt  of  this 
result  crossed  the  mind  of  the  haughty  Adelantado,  and  he  made 
instant  preparations  for  throwing  a  body  of  troops  on  shore,  and 
taking  possession  of  the  territory  in  the  name  of  his  monarch, 
the  Emperor,  Charles  the  Fifth.  The  wealthy  knight,  Vaseo 
Porcallos,  claimed  the  high  honor  of  leading  this  party,  and  per- 
forming this  act  of  sovereignty ;  and  the  privilege  was  conceded 
him.  He  was  to  have  the  command  of  a  force  of  three  thousand 
men,  being,  in  fact,  all  those  who  could  be  prepared  for  disem- 
barkation during  that  day.  The  shipping,  meanwhile,  were  gra- 
dually warping  in  shore,  a  performance  not  so  easy  on  account  of 
the  rapid  shoaling  of  the  water,  and  for  which  they  had  to  depend 
upon  the  tides.  Meanwhile,  more  for  the  purposes  >f  solemnity 
and  state,  than  because  he  felt  the  need  to  be  taught  anything,  the 
Adelantado  called  a  council  of  his  chief  officers.  Philip  de  Yas- 
conselos  was  invited  to  this  conference.  He,  by  the  way,  had  been 
one  of  those  designated  to  land  with  Vasco  Porcallos,  the  better 
that  he  might  act  as  interpreter,  should  there  be  any  meeting  with 
the  red  men.  With  regard  to  this  sort  of  service,  De  Soto  now 
more  than  ever  felt  the  importance  of  having  one  with  him  \vho 
not  only  had  some  knowledge  of  the  country,  but  who  could  thus 
become  a  medium  of  communication  with  its  people.  Though 
still  a  little  too  lofty  and  reserved  towards  our  knight  of  Portu- 
gal, he  yet  descended  somewhat  from  his  pride  of  place  in  order 
to  solicit  him.  He  had  already  distinguished  him  by  the  request, 
that  he  would  serve  about  his  person  as  one  of  his  Lieutenants, — 
a  request  which  the  other  had  no  motive  to  refuse ;  and  he  cheer- 
fully consented  to  disembark  among  the  first  with  Vasco  Por- 


PHILIP'S  COUNSEL.  379 

callos.  His  first  counsel  to  the  Adelantado,  and  the  other  chiefs, 
was  that  every  step  should  be  taken  with  great  circumspection  ; 
that  there  should  be  horse  patrols  on  every  side  ;  that  the  most 
unrelaxing  watchfulness  should  be  required  of  every  sentinel; 
that  the  troops  should  sleep  in  their  armor,  and  have  their  wea- 
pons constantly  at  hand. 

"  These  Apalachians,  Senores,"  said  he,  "  are  a  fierce  and  fear- 
less race;  they  are  no  such  feeble  and  timid  people,  as  those  of 
Cuba  and  Peru.  They  love  the  fight  with  a  passion  which  pre- 
fers it  as  their  best  delight.  They  ask  no  mercy,  and  they  accord 
none.  It  will  need  all  our  valor  and  prudence,  and  we  shall  tri- 
umph rather  less  through  our  valor,  than  our  modes  of  deliver- 
ing battle, — the  peculiarity  of  our  weapons, — the  terrors  in- 
spired by  our  arquebuses, — which  shall  seem  to  the  savages  no 
less  than  thunder  and  swords  of  the  subtle  lightning;  and  the 
awe  with  which  they  shall  behold  our  horses  ;  to  them  so  many 
unknown  and  devouring  monsters  ;  which  they  shall  endeavor  to 
escape  in  vain,  and  whose  speed  shall  mock  their  own  fleetness 
of  foot;  which,  compared  with  that  of  other  men,  is  truly  mar- 
vellous!" 

The,  Adelantado  smiled  rather  contemptuously  at  this  counsel, 
having,  as  he  thought,  sufficient  experience  himself,  in  warfare 
with  the  red  men,  to  know  what  precautions  to  take,  and  how  to 
manage  the  encounter  with  the  enemy. 

"  Truly,  we  are  thankful  for  your  zeal  and  wisdom,  Don  Philip, 
though  with  some  experience  of  our  own,  in  the  warfare  with  the 
heathen,  and  some  small  reputation  gained  in  other  wars,  it  might 
be  held  reasonable  to  suppose  that  I  should  omit  none  of  the 
precautions  which  are  needful  to  the  safety  of  my  followers  when 
embarking  on  the  shores  of  the  Floridian." 

There  was  no  pique  in  the  tone  or  manner  of  our  knight  of 
Portugal,  as  he  replied  calmly  : 

"  Your  Excellency  says  rightly,  and  I  were  greatly  deserving 
of  rebuke,  had  I  designed  to  cast  a  doubt  up  in  your  perfect  suffi- 
ciency  for  the  toils  of  war  in  any  land  :  but  I  mean!  nothing  more 
than  a  general  warning  that  the  circumspection  which  would  suf- 
tiee  against  an  ordinary  race,  will  hardly  be  adequate  for  secu- 
rity against  this  of  the  Apalachian,  whose  subtleties  tar  exeeed 
those  of  all  cither  races  of  red  men,  and  who  are  as  valiant  in 
perilling  their  persons  as  they  are  ingenious  in  their  warlike  de- 
vices." 

With  this  apologetic  speech,  he  paused,  seeing  that  he  spoke  to 
an  unwilling  auditory.  The  Adelantado  addressed  his  council 
without  giving  the  slightest  heed  to  what  had  been  urged  by  the 


380  VASCONIELOS. 

knight  of  Portugal ;  and  the  latter,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  con- 
soled himself  with  the  reflection,  that  the  lesson  which  he  strove 
in  vain  to  enforce,  would  probably  be  taught,  though  at  a  greater 
cost  to  his  hearers,  by  the  Apalachian  himself. 

"The  experience  which  tutors  pride  to  a  just  humility,"  he 
mused  within  himself,  "  is  perhaps,  the  best  sort  of  lessoning ; 
and  he  who  would  succeed,  when  the  warfare  is  somewhat  with 
his  own  vanity,  cannot  be  saved  from  the  punishment  which  fol- 
lows close  upon  its  indulgence.  It  is  well,  perhaps,  that  he  will 
not  hear,  since  it  is  only  right  that  he  should  be  made  to  feel ; 
and  our  safety  and  success,  perhaps,  must  equally  depend  upon 
our  being  made  to  feel,  at  the  beginning  of  the  adventure,  rather 
than  at  a  later  time,  when  we  are  too  deeply  engaged  in  it.  But, 
so  sure  as  there  are  Fates,  Hernando  de  Soto  will  be  certain 
to  receive  his  lesson  before  he  hath  gone  very  deeply  into  his 
books." 

The  conference, — such  as  it  was — where  there  could  be  no 
dissent  and  no  deliberation, — was  soon  at  an  end.  De  Soto 
simply  detailed  his  plans  at  length,  and  gave  his  order  for  the 
disembarkation,  the  conduct  of  which  was  entrusted  to  the 
wealthy  Don  Vasco  Porcallos ;  and  never  was  ambitious  mortal 
more  eager  than  he  to  set  forth  on  his  adventures.  His  ap- 
petites for  gold  and  captives  had  been  growing  with  every  league 
of  progress  which  he  had  made  on  the  watery  waste,  and  still 
less  than  the  Adelantado  was  he  prepared  to  apprehend  the  pos- 
sibility of  failure  or  reverse  of  any  sort  in  his  present  frame  of 
mind.  He  dreamed  only  of  riding  down  myriads  of  naked  and 
panic-stricken  savages,  selecting  the  most  vigorous  captives  and 
spearing  the  rest.  But  Vasconselos  better  knew  the  danger,  and 
hence  the  duty.  He  knew  they  were  not  to  triumph  without 
hard  fighting,  great  firmness,  and  constant  caution. 

Scarcely  had  the  vessels  appeared  in  sight  of  the  coasts,  than 
the  balefires  smoked  on  all  the  heights  and  tumuli  that  lined  the 
shore,  attesting  the  watch  and  vigilance  of  the  Floridians.  These 
were  signals  of  danger,  and  announced  to  the  warriors  in  the  inte- 
rior to  gather  from  all  quarters.  Philip  pointed  out  these  sig- 
nals to  the  page.  "  See  you,  Juan,"  said  he, — "  already  the  red 
men  have  taken  alarm.  Those  smokes  that  rise  every  where  in 
sight,  will  kindle  other  smokes,  which  shall  give  warning  to  all 
the  separate  tribes.  They  will  fire  piles  throughout  the  mighty 
forests,  until  the  answering  smokes  shall  ascend  from  the  great 
mountains  of  the  Apalachian.  Where  a  people  are  thus  vigilant) 
to  note  and  prepare  for  the  first  dangers  of  invasion,  they  are 
warlike ;  they  will  fight  famously  ;  they  will  give  us  work  to 


SAVAGE   WARFARE.  381 

do,  and  task  equally  our  skill  and  valor.  So,  be  you  watchful 
always,  my  boy,  that  you  be  not  at  any  time  surprised.  In  a 
country  of  deep  forests,  and  great  swarded  meadows,  such  as  we 
shall  here  encounter,  filled  with  races  of  fearless  hunters,  there  is 
no  moment  secure  from  danger ;  there  is  scarcely  a  position  safe 
against  surprise.  One  lies  down  never  at  night,  without  the  ap- 
prehension that  he  shall  suddenly  be  summoned  by  the  deathly 
whoops  of  the  savage,  to  face  the  danger  in  the  dark.  It  needs  to 
sleep  always,  lance  or  sword  in  hand,  and  with  one  eye  and  one 
ear  ever  open  to  sights  and  sounds  of  most  terrible  import.  Be 
watchful,  as  you  shall  behold  me  ever ;  and  be  sure  that  you 
cling  closely  to  my  footsteps,  when  the  work  of  death  begins." 

Could  the  good  knight,  at  this  moment,  have  felt  the  quick, 
deep  beatings  of  the  boy's  heart ;  could  he  have  seen  the  tremu- 
lous quiver  of  his  lips ;  could  he  have  conjectured  what  emotions, 
strange  and  oppressive,  all  crowded  for  utterance  in  that  young 
bosom  ; — all,  however,  kept  down  by  a  will  that  was  perfectly 
wonderful,  in  so  young  a  frame  !  But  the  eyes  of  Philip  were 
scarcely  set  upon  the  boy  as  he  addressed  him.  He  spoke  while 
they  were  both  busy,  preparing  their  equipments,  and  getting  in 
readiness  to  obey  the  command  to  disembark.  It  was  with  pro- 
digious effort  that  the  boy  controlled  his  emotions  sufficiently  to 
speak. 

"  And  are  we,  even  now,  to  land  upon  the  shores  of  the  Apa- 
lachian,  Seilor  ?" 

"  Within  the  hour,  Juan,  a  party  of  three  hundred  men,  com- 
manded by  Don  Vasco  Porcallos,  will  take  possession  of  the 
country  in  the  name  of  the  Emperor,  and  I  am  to  accompany 
him,  as  interpreter  of  the  speech  of  the  red  man,  should  we 
happen  to  meet  with  any  of  his  race.  But  he  will  be  more  apt 
to  speak  through  his  darts  and  arrows,  than  with  civil  tongue ; 
and  now  I  think  of  it,  Juan,  it  is  perhaps  needless  that  you 
should  go  with  me  on  shore,  until  the  whole  command  shall  dis- 
embark. You  are  yet  quite  young,  and  had  better  gather  glimps- 
es of  the  strife  from  a  distance  at  first,  than  be  a  sharer  in  one 
of  which  thou  hast  no  experience.  Keep  thine  ears  open,  and 
alter  midnight  thou  shalt  hear  the  hellish  clamors  of  the  savage 
as  they  howl  and  rage  around  our  camp.  I  shall  not  need  thee 
in  this  adventure,  for  which  thou  art  yet  scarcely  well  fitted." 

The  boy's  lip  quivered,  but  his  words  were  firmly  delivered. 

"  Seftor,  when  shall  I  be  fitted,  if  I  never  begin?  Some  time 
I  must  begin,  and  the  longer  the  day  is  put  off,  the  slower  will  be 
my  teaching.  I  do  not  fear.  I  shall  be  with  you,  Sefior;  if  you 
please,  I  will  go  on  shore  with  you  to-night." 


382  VASCONSELOS. 

"  In  God's  name,  boy,  have  your  wish.  You  say  rightly. 
There  must  be  a  time,  when  this  lesson  must  be  taught,  and 
learned,  and  the  sooner,  as  you  say,  the  better.  Get  on  your 
escaupil,  and  see  that  your  weapons  are  such  as  will  serve  to 
risk  a  life  upon.  Bring  them  hither,  that  I  may  see." 

We  must  not  linger  on  these  details.  Suffice  it  that  all  parties 
were  soon  prepared  for  the  landing.  It  was  on  the  last  clay  of 
the  month  of  May,  soft,  serene  and  sweet,  that  the  gallant  Hi- 
dalgo, Don  Vasco  Porcallos,  led  the  way  for  his  detachment  of 
three  hundred,  and  took  final  possession  of  the  soil  of  the  Flo- 
ridians  in  the  name  of  Spain.  The  solemnity  was  a  very  stately 
one,  but  needs  not  that  we  describe  it.  The  banner  of  Castile 
was  unrolled  and  elevated  in  the  free  air  of  the  Apalachians,  and 
was  planted  upon  one  of  the  elevations  nearest  to  the  shore. 
The  region  was  thickly  wooded,  the  forests  were  all  clad  in  the 
freshest  verdure  of  the  opening  summer ;  the  breeze  was  charged 
with  odors  from  worlds  of  flowers,  the  choicest  natives  of  the 
country  ;  and  a  natural  delight  filled  every  bosom,  and  exhila- 
rated the  spirits  of  the  soldiery  with  an  enthusiasm  that  seemed 
already  in  possession  of  the  fullest  successes.  In  pitching  their 
camp,  Philip  de  Vasconselos  again  ventured  to  give  such  hints 
to  Don  Vasco,  as  became  his  experience  and  caution.  But  the 
latter  was  even  more  sanguine  than  De  Soto,  and  less  heedful  \ 
and  the  manner  in  which  he  received  these  counsels  of  the  knight 
of  Portugal,  seemed  to  have  been  borrowed  from  that  of  the 
Adelantado  on  the  occasion  already  shown.  He  was  civilly 
scornful,  and  Vasconselos  saw,  with  chagrin  and  apprehension, 
that  the  ground  chosen  for  the  night  was  such  as  would  rather 
invite  and  facilitate  than  discourage  from  attack.  But  he  could  do 
no  more.  He  had  only  to  submit,  and  hope  against  his  fears, 
and  provide  as  well  as  he  might,  against  the  emergency  that  he 
anticipated.  But  lacking  all  command,  with  but  the  single  fol- 
lower, he  a  child,  inexperienced  and  evidently  tired,  what  could 
be  done  ? 

"  Come,"  said  he  cheerfully  to  Juan.  "  come,  my  boy,  and  let 
us  seek  out  our  quarters.  We  are  limited  to  a  certain  precinct, 
but  this  affords  choice  of  sleeping-place,  and  upon  this  choice 
may  rest  chance  of  safety." 

The  boy  followed  in  silence.  The  knight  rambled  over  the 
ground  assigned  for  the  encampment,  and  chose  a  little  clump  of 
wood,  which  afforded  sufficient  cover  for  a  small  group,  yet  stood 
apart,  as  it  were,  from  the  rest  of  the  forest:  artiirdiiisi  an  inter- 
val, over  which  the  eye  could  range  with  tolerable  freedom  tor 
some  space,  and  thus  note  any  hostile  approaches.  To  find  this  par 


KNIGHTLY    LESSONS. 

ticular  spot,  Vaseonselos  made  his  way  to  the  very  verge  of  the 
encampment,  but  not  much  farther  from  the  shore  than  any  of 
the  rest  of  the  detachment.  Here  he  hung  his  buckler  upon  a 
bough,  while,  in  the  rear  of  the  thicket,  he  secured  his  steed, 
lie  was  one  of  the  few,  but  seven  in  number,  who  had  suc- 
ceeded in  bringing  their  horses  ashore  that  evening.  "  The  good 
knight  must  love  his  good  steed,  and  care  for  him,  Juan,  as  he 
values  his  own  life.  Help  me  now  to  rub  him  down.  Bring 
me  some  of  those  dried  grasses,  my  boy.  His  legs  are  stiffened 
by  his  narrow  lodgings,  and  ship-board,  and  lack  of  exercise. 
The  rope  ?  Hast  thou  brought  it  ]" 

"  It  is  here,  Senor." 

"  Ah  !  now  this  will  give  him  range  to  feed,  yet  keep  him  fast ; 
but  an  armful  of  these  young  reeds,  with  their  fresh  leaves  upon 
them,  will  help  his  appetite.  Let  us  cut  them,  boy." 

The  grass  was  quickly  cut  with  their  machetes,  with  one  of 
which  each  was  properly  provided,  and  the  soft  green  cane-tops 
were  spread  before  the  haltered  animal,  who  fed  with  eagerness. 

"  It  rejoices  the  knight's  heart  to  see  his  charger  feed  with  ap- 
petite. The  grateful  beast  knows  what  we  do  for  him.  He  will 
pe  content  through  the  night.  Thine  own  shall  be  brought  ashore. 
to-morrow,  and  then,  if  thou  hast  never  practised  these  little 
toils,  thou  shalt  leam  from  me.  But  evermore  be  careful  of  thy 
stood.  In  a  strange  wild  country  like  this,  of  the  Apalachian,  if 
he  fail  thee,  thou  art  lost.  Never  feel  thyself  at  ease  until  thou 
seest  him  eat  and  drink  with  a  will;  and  it  were  well  always  to 
give  him  chance  to  wallow  in  the  sands.  A  little  toil,  night  I  y 
takou,  ere  thou  sleep'st  thyself,  and  thy  steed  sleeps  well  also  ; 
and  thy  own  conscience  is  at  peace  in  thy  bosom,  and  thy  safety 
is  so  far  secure.  But  remember  thy  beast,  always,  if  thou 
wouldst  sleep  with  a  good  conscience." 

And  thus,  as  they  cared  for  the  wants  and  comforts  of  the  gal- 
lant dostrier,  did  Vaseonselos  speak  to  his  page;  and  the  latter 
Occasionally  murmured  a  sentence  in  reply  or  inquiry  ;  but  it 
was  a  delightful  thing  to  see  how,  first,  they  cared  for  the  animal, 
b.'l'orv  seeing  how  they  themselves  had  wants.  Juan  found  ,-t 
si  range  satisfaction,  thus  employed,  the  more  perhaps,  because  he 
toiled  for  such  a  master;  and  as  he  passed  the  rough,  dry  grasses 
of  the,  forest  over  the  animal's  sides  and  thighs,  his  arms  some- 
times ei-o  ;siug  with  those  of  the  good  knight,  and  their  eyes  meet- 
ing, ami  the  gentle  words  of  the  latter  melting  into  his  ears,  the 
Heart  of  the  hoy  heat  with  emotions  of  a  singular  pleasure,  such 
as  he  had  seldom  felt  before.  The  horse  stripped  and  chafed,  and 
his  furniture  hidden  away  in  the  thicket  at  hand,  but  always  con. 


384  VASCONSELOS. 

venient,  they  selected  their  own  place  of  repose.  The  dried 
leaves  of  the  forest  furnished  a  sufficient  couch ;  the  forest  pines 
and  other  trees  yielded  a  goodly  shelter.  The  evening  was  calm 
and  grateful.  The  warm  serenity  of  the  season  required  no 
closer  lodgings.  The  most  perfect  repose  prevailed  throughout 
the  forest,  and  save  the  clamor  made  by  the  troops,  not  a  sound 
was  to  be  heard,  whether  on  land  or  sea.  The  soldiers  dis- 
persed themselves  about  the  woods,  chose  their  places  of  repose 
as  Vasconselos  had  done,  but  without  any  regard  to  his  precau- 
tions. They  saw  no  danger,  and  apprehended  none,  as  they  be- 
held no  foe,  and  all  was  confidence,  and  all  was  excitement. 

"  Surely,  Senor,"  said  Juan,  "  these  quiet  woods  harbor  no 
enemies." 

"  It  is  in  the  quiet  seas,  Juan,  that  the  shark  prevails.  In  the 
tempest  he  retires  to  his  ocean  caverns.  The  wolf  prowls  in  the 
stillness  of  the  night.  The  adder  is  a  great  traveller  in  the  dark 
hours.  It  is  because  these  forests  are  so  quiet  now,  that  I  feel 
there  are  enemies  at  hand.  But  let  us  sup  ere  we  speak  of  them, 
icst  we  forfeit  something  of  appetite.  Where  is  thy  wallet "?" 

It  was  produced.  The  page  displayed  its  contents,  and  stood 
in  waiting. 

"  Sit,  boy,  and  eat  with  me.  Thou  art  my  companion,  child, 
not  slave.  Sit !" 

With  a  strange  tremor  in  his  limbs,  and  vacant  look  which 
did  not  escape  the  eye  of  Philip,  the  boy  took  his  seat  before 
him,  but  scarcely  nigh.  This  emotion  the  knight  ascribed  to 
the  humility  of  the  page.  He  strove  to  soothe  this  by  conde- 
scension, by  the  utmost  gentleness  of  manner  and  fondness  of 
discourse  ;  but  the  effect  was  not  such  as  he  expected — not  just 
then,  at  least. 

"  Time  will  wear  off  these  fears,"  said  the  knight  to  himself,  as 
he  broke  the  bread  and  passed  it  to  the  boy. 

"  Eat,  Juan!  Thou  wilt  need  to  learn  how  to  eat  and  sleep  at 
all  seasons;  if  thou  wouldst  become  a  soldier.  We  shall  have 
to  wake  and  fight,  when  it  shall  not  please  us,  the  summons  ;  and 
shall  not  be  summoned  to  our  food  always,  or  our  sleep,  when 
most  the  appetite  shall  call  for  both." 

When  they  had  supped,  Philip  said — 

"  Now,  Juan,  thou  wilt  watch  while  I  sleep.  I  will  take  advan- 
tage of  the  early  hours  of  the  night,  when  the  red  man  seldom 
prowls  or  strikes,  and  in  the  middle  of  it,  I  will  wake,  or  thou 
shalt  waken  me,  that  I  may  take  thy  place  as  watcher  for  the  rest 
of  the  night.  See,  from  this  place,  where  we  both  lie  concealed, 
you  are  enabled  to  note  all  that  happens  around  you  for  some 


NIGHT-WATCH.  385 

distance.  You  will  observe  who  approaches;  note  all  things  that 
seem  unwonted  ;  and  arouse  me  instantly.  Do  not  trust  to  your 
own  courage,  or  weapon,  wholly,  if  it  need  that  any  thing  be 
done  !  See,  on  every  side  but  one,  lies  the  encampment.  On 
the  left,  the  interval  is  open  which  separates  us  from  the  denser 
forest.  From  that  quarter  the  danger  may  arise.  Watch  that 
well  !  Behind  us,  at  a  little  distance,  is  the  sea ;  in  which,  with 
a  few  fleet  bounds,  we  may  bury  our  forms  from  an  enemy,  and 
be  within  speech  and  succor  from  the  ships.  Thou  canst  watch 
for  three  goodly  hours,  without  feeling  the  heavy  weight  of  sleep 
upon  thee.  That  time  over,  I  shall  surely  rise  to  relieve  thee, 
and  should  I  not,  do  thou  then  awaken  me." 

Without  further  speech,  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  in  his  armor, 
as  he  stood,  threw  himself  at  length  at  the  foot  of  the  great  tree. 
His  hand  grasped  his  sword,  which  he  had  unstrapped  from  his 
shoulders.  It  was  not  long  before  he  slept ;  for  he  was  one  of 
those  to  whom  the  experience  of  such  a  life  had  taught  the  wis- 
dom of  securing  and  encouraging  the  blessings  of  sleep  when- 
ever he  could,  knowing,  as  he  had  said  to  Juan,  that  the  sum- 
mons to  arouse  for  battle  might  come  at  any  moment  in  a  savage 
country,  and  might  not  always  please  the  sleeper;  and  he  pos- 
sessed the  faculty  of  commanding  sleep  at  almost  any  moment. 

He  slept ;  and  gradually  the  boy  drew  nearer,  crawling  softly, 
to  the  head  of  the  knight,  whose  face  was  turned  upon  the  side 
opposite.  But  with  this  scarcely  audible  movement,  Philip 
showed  himself  restless.  The  boy  receded,  and  gathering  up  his 
cross-bow,  raised  it  to  the  level  of  the  eye,  and  ranged  it  from 
side  to  side,  upon  the  open  spaces  between  the  trees  in  front. 
The  stars  shone  very  brightly,  and  in  that  region  served  to  re- 
veal objects  of  small  size  at  considerable  distance.  Juan  medi- 
tated within  himself  very  seriously  the  question  : 

"  What  if  some  red    warrior  should  suddenly  appear?" 

His  heart  beat  with  quickened  pulses,  as  he  asked  the  ques- 
tion. 

"  Should  I  have  the  strength,  the  courage,  the  confidence  to 
shoot  ? — But  he  bade  me  not !  I  was  to  awaken  him.  I  was  to 
watch  only,  and  report  the  danger." 

He  laid  the  bow  aside,  and  once  more  crept  closely  to  the 
sleeping  cavalier.  The  face  of  Philip  was  still  averted.  But 
the  boy  did  not  seem  anxious  to  gaze  upon  it.  His  object  ap- 
peared to  be  attained  when  he  was  beside  him.  There  he  sate, 
quietly,  his  eyes  looking  out  with  sufficient  watchfulness,  intent 
enough,  but  with  a  sense  wandering  in  quite  other  fields  of  sur- 
vey. With  hands  clasped  upon  his  lap,  he  yielded  himself  up  to 
17 


386  YASCONSELOS. 

fancies,  dreaming  and  delicious,  yet  so  touched  with  a  peculiar 
sadness,  that  the  bitter  predominated  over  the  sweet,  and  the  big 
tears  might  be  seen,  moulding  themselves  into  melancholy  jew- 
els in  the  starlight,  rounding  themselves  gradually  upon  his  elu-i-k. 
and  dropping  one  by  one,  as  they  grew  to  brilliants.  The  hours 
swam  along  with  the  stars,  and  the  stars  waned  in  their  silent 
progress  for  the  blessing  of  other  eyes,  and  the  eyes  of  Juan 
drooped  at  last  with  the  heaviness  upon  them.  He  strove  to 
shake  off  the  drowsiness  which  he  felt ;  but  there  was  something 
in  that  foreign  atmosphere  which  could  not  be  withstood,  and 
while  he  strove  to  range  along  the  barrel  of  the  cross-bow, 
(which  he  had  taken  up  with  some  vague  notion  that  it  would 
keep  him  wakefiil,)  over  the  intervals  which  spread  between  him 
and  the  gloomy  shadows  of  the  wood  which  he  had  been  espe- 
cially enjoined  to  watch  ; — 'it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  wood  it- 
self were  swimming,  like  waves  of  the  sea,  and  as  if  the  stars 
descended  to  the  plain,  only  to  ascend  once  more ;  to  and  fro  ; 
upward  and  downward  and  onward,  till  all  things  appeared  to 
mix  and  mingle  in  his  sight.  Then  suddenly,  he  started,  with  a 
strange  confusion,  as  he  fancied  he  heard  the  voice  of  Don  Philip. 
This,  for  a  moment,  aroused  him  ;  but  looking  down,  he  saw 
Don  Philip  still  sleeping ;  and,  satisfied  to  see  thus,  he  was  con- 
scious of  little  more  after  this  for  some  time,  though  he  might 
have  been  just  as  watchful  as  before.  But  very  soon  after  this, 
Don  Philip  really  awakened.  He  found  the  boy  fast  asleep,  with 
his  arm  thrown  over  his  neck.  He  gently  unloosed  it,  and  rose. 

"  Poor  boy  !"  said  the  knight — "  Thou  hast  taken  on  thee  a 
perilous  labor,  which  thy  slight  figure  will  scarce  endure.  But 
sleep,  and  I  will  watch  thee.  I  could  wish  thee  stronger,  for  my 
sake,  no  less  than  thine  ;  for  verily,  of  all  this  host,  I  have  now 
none  but  thee  !"  After  a  pause — "  And  there  is  that  about  the 
child  which  binds  me  to  him  ;  which  makes  me  love  him  almost ! 
Wherefore  ?  It  is  because  I  am  alone  !  It  is  because  the  nature 
of  the  strong  man  requires  a  charge,  a  trust,  a  burden,  so  that 
his  strength  shall  be  healthfully  at  exercise ;  so  that  his  muscles 
shall  not  shrink,  lacking  due  employment !  Well !  I  will  pro- 
tect and  help  him  so  long  as  I  can  help  any  thing,  and  then — but 
why  look  into  the  vast  vacancy  of  that  dark  realm  of  the  future, 
in  which  no  flower  shall  ever  grow  for  me  f 

He  rose  suddenly,  as  if  startled ;  seized  his  sword,  buckled  it 
to  his  side,  and  caught  up  the  cross-bow  of  the  page.  He  stole 
forward  a  few  paces,  and  seemed  to  listen ;  then  returned  to  his 
place,  and  laid  the  bow  again  by  the  side  of  the  sleeping  Juan. 
His  next  attentions  were  bestowed  upon  his  steed.  The  beast 


ALARUMS.  387 

had  eaten  plentifully,  and  now  slept;  but  raised  his  head,  and 
seemed  to  recognize  his  master  as  he  drew  nigh.  Philip  patted 
his  neck  affectionately,  then  bade  him  rise,  and  proceeded  with 
the  utmost  care  and  silence  to  put  on  his  war  harness,  his  saddle 
and  bridle,  and  have  him  in  readiness  for  instant  use.  But  he 
did  not  loose  the  animal  ;  simply  shortened  his  halter  that  he 
might  not  again  lie  down.  Meanwhile,  every  thing  was  still  as 
death  in  the  encampment.  Philip  saw  no  sentinels  ;  heard  no 
guards  relieved;  knew  nothing  of  the  cautionary  steps  which 
Don  Vasco  Porcallos  might  be  supposed  to  have  taken.  The 
night  was  lapsing  towards  the  dawn.  This  he  felt  in  the  coolness 
of  the  atmosphere.  He  stole  cautiously  out  to  the  edge  of  the 
wood  in  his  quarter  of  the  camp,  and  looked  to  the  black  range 
of  the  forest  beyond.  Nothing  was  stirring,  not  a  leaf  seemed 
to  be  disturbed,  in  the  cold  thin  air  of  the  morning. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  as  he  returned  to  where  he  left  the  boy 
sleeping,  "  it  may  be  that  we  shall  escape  to-night.  The  savages, 
perhaps,  have  not  yet  had  time  for  a  gathering  of  their  warriors. 
They  would  otherwise  have  never  suffered  the  night  to  pass, 
without  giving  us  a  taste  of  battle.  I  know  them  of  old ;  fierce, 
restless,  impatient,  fearless  :  cunning  as  valiant ;  and  never  relent- 
ing in  their  purposes.  We  shall  see  enough  of  them  yet,  though 
we  escape  them  now." 

He  returned  to  his  late  resting-place.  Juan  was  still  bound 
fast  in  the  embrace  of  sleep.  He  threw  himself  beside  the  boy, 
and  in  the  imperfect  light  of  the  stars,  which  looked  down 
through  the  openings  of  the  trees,  he  steadily  perused  his  fea- 
tures. In  this  examination  the  interest  of  the  knight  appeared  to 
be  very  great,  and  the  study  seemed  to  sadden  him.  But  the 
bronze  features,  in  the  imperfect  starlight,  revealed  nothing.  The 
face  was  sweet  and  girlish,  and  the  face,  if  fair,  might  be  count- 
ed beautiful.  So  the  musing  knight  thought,  during  the  long 
watch  of  hours  which  he  maintained  beside  the  unconscious  boy. 
But  he  was  not  suffered  to  continue  the  unembarrassed  study,  un- 
til the  better  light  of  the  morning  should  enable  him  to  peruse 
the  intelligible  features.  He  fancied  that  he  heard  unwonted 
sounds  ;  a  stick  was  broken  in  the  woods.  His  steed  whinnied. 
There  was  an  interruption  of  the  silence  which  he  could  not  de- 
fine, and  seizing  his  sword,  he  rose  to  his  feet,  and  quietly  stole 
away  to  where  his  steed  was  fastened. 

Meanwhile,  Juan  slept  on,  never  once  conjecturing  aught  of 
the  sad  and  silent  watch  which  the  good  knight  had  kept  above 
him.  But  he  was  awakened  rudely  from  his  dream.  At  that 
moment,  Vasconselos  heard  a  cry,  that  sounded  in  his  ears  like 


388  VASCONSELOS. 

the  voice  of  a  woman.  It  appeared  also  to  proceed  from  the  spot 
where  Juan  had  been  left  sleeping.  He,  by  this  time,  had  ven- 
tured out  again  to  the  edge  of  the  wood,  and  was  looking  over 
the  intervening  space  towards  the  dark  forests  lying  beyond. 
The  cry  alarmed  him ;  though  it  bore  no  resemblance  to  the 
usual  whoop  of  Indian  battle.  It  might  be  that  some  \vild 
beast  had  found  his  way  to  where  the  boy  slept — the  panther's  cry 
is  like  that  of  a  child  or  girl, — and,  with  excited  pulses,  and 
the  blood  rapidly  coursing  through  his  veins,  Philip  darted  back 
to  the  place  where  the  boy  was  left.  He  reached  the  spot  just 
in  time  to  discover  two  dark  forms, — clearly  men, — who  were 
drawing  Juan  away  to  the  thickets.  He  readily  divined  the 
purpose  in  the  action.  Again  a  shriek  :  and  this  time  he  knew 
it  for  the  boy's ;  but  so  full  of  a  feminine  terror,  that  his  heart 
sickened  as  he  thought  of  the  strange  simplicity  and  ignorance 
which  had  prompted  one  so  feeble  to  venture  upon  an  enterprise 
so  perilous.  He  thought  and  felt  thus,  even  in  that  moment  of 
alarm.  He  saw  that  the  boy  struggled,  and  he  further  saw  that 
the  dusky  forms,  by  whom  he  had  been  seized,  were  brandishing, 
each,  a  heavy  mace  above  his  head.  There  was  no  time  for 
further  thought,  or  for  hesitation.  To  dart  forward,  and  with  a 
single  stroke  of  his  keen  sword,  to  smite  down  one  of  the  assail- 
ants ;  to  grasp  the  other  by  the  throat  and  tear  him  from  the 
boy,  then,  as  he  staggered  back,  to  run  him  through  the  body, 
— was  the  work  of  a  few  moments.  The  two  savages  lay  at  his 
feet  in  the  agonies  of  death.  The  boy  staggered,  gasping,  towards 
him,  an  hysterical  sob  only  breaking  from  his  lips.  With  a  stern 
voice,  the  knight  said  : — 

"  Seize  thy  cross-bow,  Juan,  and  collect  thyself.  This  is  no 
time  for  fears.  The  Apalachian  is  on  us." 

To  confirm  his  words,  at  that  very  instant,  the  wild  yells  of 
the  savages  rose  up  in  all  quarters  of  the  encampment.     The 
Spaniards  struggled  out  of  sleep  only  to  encounter  their  enemies. 
The  sentinels  had  slept.     Few  were  awake.     The  surprise  wa 
complete. 

"  Follow  me,"  cried  Philip  to  the  boy,  and  his  stern  accents, 
by  enforcing  obedience,  in  some  degree  disarmed  Juan  of  his 
terrors ;  at  all  events,  he  obeyed.  He  followed  by  instinct,  cross- 
bow in  hand,  and  was  at  the  side  of  the  knight  as  the  latter 
leaped  upon  his  steed. 

"  Up  with  thee,  behind  me,  boy — we  have  not  a  moment." 

And  the  light  form,  assisted  by  the  powerful  arm  of  Philip, 
sprang  at  once  upon  the  steed.  The  spur  was  instantly  driven 
into  the  beast's  sides,  and  he  was  made  to  go  !  The  wild  rush, 


THE   CONFLICT.  389 

the  monstrous  form,  the  gigantic  bulk,  of  the  animal,  made  its 
impression.  A  hundred  naked  savages  darted  out  of  the  wood 
through  which  he  went,  and  fled  before  his  path.  The  knight 
shouted  aloud,  in  the  language  of  Castile  ;  then  blew  a  wild  flour- 
ish upon  his  bugle,  and  joyed  to  hear  the  answers  of  the  Span- 
iards from  sundry  quarters.  Vasco  Porcallos  was  soon  on  horse- 
back, for  though  vain  as  a  peacock,  and  pursy  as  an  alderman, 
he  had  the  blood  and  energy  of  a  true  cavalier.  The  other  five 
troopers  were  soon  in  saddle,  and,  charging  among  the  red  men, 
now  yelling  and  darting  amidst  the  forests,  in  the  doubtful  light 
of  morning,  they  soon  changed  the  character  of  the  event.  But, 
until  this  demonstration  of  the  knights  on  horseback,  the  affair 
was  seriously  against  the  whites.  The  Spaniards  had  been 
not  only  surprised,  but  fairly  routed.  Started  out  of  their  pro- 
foundest  sleep,  they  had  made  but  little  opposition  to  the  savages. 
They  fled  in  tumultuous  confusion  to  the  sea-side,  clamoring  for 
succor  to  the  ships.  Many  of  these  were  wounded ;  all  would 
have  perished,  but  for  the  spirited  charge  of  the  knights  on 
horseback,  and  the  strange  terrors  occasioned  by  the  horses, 
animals  whom  the  red  men  had  never  seen  before.  The  savages 
disappeared  in  the  forests,  as  soon  as  they  found  themselves 
seriously  resisted,  almost  as  swiftly  and  suddenly  as  they  had 
appeared.  Vasco  Porcallos  was  greatly  delighted  with  this,  his  first 
essay  in  arms  against  the  Floridian.  But,  even  while  he  boasted 
of  his  prowess,  his  noble  steed  fell  suddenly  dead  beneath  him, 
slain  by  an  arrow  which  had  buried  itself  out  of  sight  in  his 
body.  When  they  reached  the  shore,  the  red  men  all  dispersed, 
and  the  troops  issuing  in  boats  with  drum  and  trumpet  from  the 
shipping,  Juan  slipped,  from  behind  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  upon 
the  ground. 

"  Art  thou  hurt,  boy  1"  demanded  the  knight. 

"  No,  Senor,  thanks  to  your  care,  I  have  no  hurt." 

"  But  thou  tremblest  still,  Juan." 

"  Yes,  Senor,  but  it  is  not  now  with  fear.  I  think  I  shall  never 
be  afraid  again." 

"  Ay,  boy,  thou  hast  tasted  of  the  strife.  Many  a  warrior  who 
grew  famous  afterwards,  has  felt  the  terrors  of  thy  heart,  Juan. 
But  I  had  never  forgiven  myself  hadst  thou  been  slain.  I 
but  left  thee  for  a  moment,  and  thou  seest  how  these  cunning 
savages  came  upon  thee.  I  had  watched  thee  for  two  goodly 
hours  as  thou  slept'st,  and  fancied  we  should  hear  nothing  of 
them." 

"  Alas  !  Senor,  thou  left'st  me  to  watch,  and  I  slept.     I  knew 


390 


VASCONSET.OF. 


not  that  I  slept.  I  knew  not  when  mine  eyes  closed,  and  I  knew 
not  of  thy  awakening." 

"  I  had  too  much  tasked  thee,  Juan,"  answered  the  knight  gently. 
"  Thou  slept' st  ere  I  awakened.  It  was  thy  arm  falling  over  my 
neck  that  awakened  me." 

"  My  arm  over  thy  neck,  Senor  !  Oh !  what  have  I  done  ?" 
and  the  boy  hung  his  head. 

"  Foolish  boy,  and  where  is  thy  offence  in  this  ?" 

But  the  boy  turned  away  without  speaking,  and  little  did  Philip 
fancy  how  wildly  the  tides  were  rising  and  falling  in  his  bosom. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

"  Methinks  amongst  yon  train, 
And  habited  like  them.  I  well  could  pass, 
And  no  one  mark  me." 

VAJJ  ARTBVELDB. 

IT  does  not  lie  within  the  plan  of  this  legend  to  follow  in  de- 
tail ali  the  progresses  of  De  Soto  in  his  weary  inarches,  his  long 
wanderings  and  fierce  battles  with  the  Floridian  and  other  In- 
dian races  of  our  country.  These  details  must  be  sought  in 
other  histories,  and  are  available  in  many,  to  the  reader.  We 
shall  only  notice  the  general  route  pursued  by  the  expedition, 
through  what  regions,  and  dwell  upon  those  events  only,  which 
concern  the  persons  of  the  drama,  with  whom  we  have  already 
travelled  through  so  many  pages. 

The  encounter  with  the  red  men  of  Apalachia,  which,  as  we 
have  seen,  took  place  almost  on  the  very  moment  of  De  Soto's 
landing  in  the  country,  was  only  the  beginning  of  a  long  history 
of  conflicts.  From  tribe  to  tribe,  from  village  to  village,  he 
pressed  onward,  only  to  encounter  the  fiercest  foes,  or  the  most 
treacherous  friends.  But,  at  the  very  outset  of  his  career,  he  re- 
covered a  Spaniard,  one  Juan  Ortiz,  who  had  been  a  follower  of 
Pamphilo  de  Narvaez,  and  had  become  a  captive  to  the  Apalach- 
ians.  In  a  captivity  of  several  years,  he  had  acquired  the  lan- 
gujige  of  many  of  the  tribes,  and  almost  lost  his  own.  This  ac- 
quisition rendered  DeSoto  somewhat  independent  of  the  services  of 
Philip  de  Vasconselos.  The  latter  was  soon  made  aware  of  this 
consciousness  of  independence,  on  the  part  of  the  Adelantado. 

Eager  for  the  attainment  of  the  great  objects  of  the  expedition, 
the  famous  cities,  and  the  golden  treasure,  which  were  believed 
to  be  locked  up  in  the  Apalachian  mountains,  Soto  lost  no  time 
in  unnecessary  delays.  Dispatching  his  largest  vessels  to  Ha- 
vana, with  the  view  to  cutting  off  all  thought  on  the  part  of  his 
followers,  of  returning  home — in  this  policy,  emulating  Cortez, 
and  other  great  leaders, — Soto  retained  but  a  single  caravel,  and 
two  brigantines,  to  keep  possession  of  the  sea-coast  and  the  bay 
where  he  had  cast  anchor.  To  this  charge,  he  appointed  Pedro 
Calderon,  an  old  soldier.  He  next  proceeded  to  send  forth  vari- 
ous small  expeditions  into  the  country,  seeking  gold  and  infor- 
mation. None  of  the  parties  thus  sent  forth  failed  to  experience 

(391) 


392  VASCONSELOS. 

curious  and  exciting  adventures  ;  but  they  do  not  affect  our  le- 
gend. We  must  not  forget,  however,  that,  from  this  moment, 
we  lose  our  famous  millionaire,  Don  Vasco  Porcallos,  whom  an 
adventure  in  a  swamp,  in  which  he  narrowly  escaped  suffocation, 
cured  effectually  of  all  his  warlike  ambition,  and  who  returned 
with  the  fleet  to  Cuba. 

Soto  set  forth  himself,  after  no  great  delay,  for  the  interior. 
His  splendid  cavalry  were  free  for  use,  by  the  employment  of 
hordes  of  captive  Indians  who  carried  the  heavy  luggage  of  the 
expedition.  His  foot  marched  at  an  easy  rate,  the  cavalry  pro- 
curing supplies,  and  clearing  the  forests  as  they  went.  In  this 
way,  the  army  marched  from  Tampa  to  Anaica,  near  the  modern 
Tallahassee.  The  brigantines,  meanwhile,  coasting  the  shore,  dis- 
covered the  harbor  of  Ochoa,  now  Pensacola.  Moving  from 
Anaica,  Soto  marched  east,  and  successively  crossed  the  rivers  *? 
Ockmulge,  Oconee  and  Ogechee.  He  finally  reached  the  Sa- 
vannah. These  marches  were  not  made  in  peace.  War  and  ter- 
ror hung  upon  the  footsteps  of  the  Spaniards.  Every  where  they  . 
met  with  foes  ; — not  such  foes  as  the  feeble  Cuban  or  Peruvian — • 
but  fierce,  stern,  strong,  implacable  enemies,— accustomed  to 
hard  blows,  and  to  a  life  of  incessant  warfare.  The  advantages 
lay  with  the  Spaniards,  but  only  as  a  consequence  of  their  supe- 
rior civilization.  They  owed  their  victories  to  their  cavalry  and 
firearms,  rather  than  their  valor.  In  this  quality,  the  Apalachi- 
ans  were  equal  to  any  people  that  ever  lived.  The  Spaniards 
proved  merciless  conquerors..  They  mutilated  where  they  did 
not  destroy,  or  desire  to  make  captive.  They  had  brought  with 
them  handcuffs  of  iron,  for  securing  their  prisoners,  and  thus 
ironed,  the  miserable  wretches  bore  the  baggage  of  their  captors 
through  the  wilderness.  Their  conquest  was  not  easily  made. 
Thousands  of  the  red  men  perished  in  the  conflict,  and  the  Span- 
iards did  not  always  escape.  It  was  not  easy  to  ride  down  these 
fierce  savages.  Many  of  the  whites  perished.  De  Soto,  himself, 
had  several  narrow  escapes  in  close  personal  conflict,  in  which,  but 
for  his  companions  in  arms,  he  must  have  been  slain.  We  need 
not  say  that,  on  all  these  occasions,  Philip  de  Vasconselos  main- 
tained himself  according  to  his  reputation.  He  suffered  no  dis- 
aster. His  page  was  equally  fortunate.  The  latter  had  risen  in 
his  master's  esteem,  as  he  had  subsequently  shown  more  courage 
than  had  been  promised  by  his  first  encounter,  at  the  landing  of 
the  troops.  From  that  moment,  he  exhibited  no  signs  of  fear. 
He  was  ever  near  the  good  knight,  and  proved  always  ready  with 
the  cross-bow.  Of  what  effect  were  the  arrows  he  discharged, 
we  have  no  means  of  knowing.  Enough  that  he  contrived  to 


ISOLATION   OF   PHILIP.  398 

• 

satisfy  the  spectators — if  any  may  be  thought  to  have  been  spec- 
tators at  such  a  time,  and  in  such  fields — of  his  stoutness  of 
heart  and  readiness  of  aim.  Philip  de  Vasconselos  himself  was 
satisfied,  and  felt  more  at  ease  in  respect  to  the  boy's  safety,  than 
he  had  been  at  the  first  opening  of  the  campaign. 

He  was  more  than  satisfied  in  other  respects.  The  boy  proved 
an  intelligent  companion.  In  his  society  the  knight  found  solace, 
and  often  did  he  feel  surprise,  at  the  equal  taste  and  intellect,  so 
different  from  his  race,  which,  as  they  grew  more  and  more  inti- 
mate, the  boy  betrayed.  Of  course,  Philip  had  not  forgotten 
what  Mateo  had  told  him,  that.Juan,  the  son  of  a  free  woman  of 
the  mountains,  had  been  carefully  nurtured,  and  had  not  been 
wanting  in  such  education  as  could  be  procured  by  money,  in 
such  a  region,  during  that  early  period.  But  the  intellect  of  the 
boy  declared  for  gifts,  quite  as  much  as  acquisition — such  gifts 
as  were  not  often  found  in  any  other  than  the  white  race.  But, 
though  such  exhibitions  surprised  Philip,  quite  as  much  as  they 
delighted  him,  yet  his  moods  and  present  employments  were  not 
of  a  sort  to  suffer  him  much  speculation  upon  them.  He  was, 
after  a  while,  quite  content  to  enjoy  their  benefits,  in  the  solace 
which  they  brought,  without  questioning  their  source ;  and  he 
needed  all  this  solace.  He  was  still  alone,  and  still,  in  spite  of 
his  services  and  valor,  quite  as  much  as  before  an  object  of  jea- 
lousy among  the  Spaniards.  Nuno  de  Tobar,  indeed,  was  still 
his  friend,  and  he  knew  others  in  ihe  army,  who  were  kindlily 
inclined  ;  but  it  was  not  often  that  the  parties  saw  each  other. 
They  were  in  different  commands,  and  frequently  detached  on 
expeditions,  aside  from  the  main  route.  There  had  been  no 
absolute  reconciliation  between  the  Portuguese  brothers ;  and 
Andres  still  kept  aloof;  though  we  may  state  that  his  bitterness 
of  mood  had  been  modified.  But  they  rarely  met.  Philip  was 
a  frequent  volunteer  when  perilous  or  adventurous  service  was 
required.  It  was  in  this  way,  mostly,  that  he  exercised  his  skill 
in  arms,  save  when  summoned  to  the  special  assistance  of  the 
Adelantado,  to  whom  he  was  nominally  an  aide  ;  but  this  rarely 
happened  except  when  captives  or  embassies  were  to  be  examin- 
ed, and  interpretations  made  from  their  language.  This  requi- 
sition, too,  had  been  of  unfrequent  occurrence  since  Juan  Ortiz 
had  been  recovered.  He,  however,  sometimes  failed  to  under- 
stand the  tongues  of  foreign  tribes,  and  thus  it  was  that  Philip 
was  needed.  But  for  this,  his  uses  in  the  army,  according  to  the 
estimates  seemingly  put  upon  them  by  his  superior,  were  of  little 
moment. 

Philip  felt  this  treatment,  and  his  boy  showed  that  he  felt  it 
17* 


894  VASCONSELOS. 

also.  The  two  lived  to  themselves  apart.  They  lay  beneath  the 
same  trees  at  night :  they  harnessed  their  horses  in  the  same 
glade.  They  sat  together  at  the  same  repast ;  Juan  retired  be- 
hind his  lord,  and  speaking  with  him  thus,  except  when,  at  times, 
as  finally  was  frequently  the  case,  Philip  bade  him  to  sit  beside 
him,  or  before  him — a  proceeding  which  the  knight  adopted,  the 
better  to  encourage  the  boy,  and  to  overcome  his  excessive  shy- 
ness. And  he  gradually  succeeded.  The  boy,  who  shrank  from 
all  other  associations,  gradually  grew  to  him,  as  the  vine  grows 
to  the  mighty  tree.  Soon  he  came  to  speak  freely  even  of  his 
own  secret  fancies  and  emotions,  and  it  really  pleased  the  knight 
to  hearken  the  language,  still  timidly  spoken,  of  a  young  confid- 
ing heart,  possessed  of  the  deepest  and  tenderest  feelings,  which 
the  isolation  in  which  he  lived,  and  the  wild  seclusion  of  that 
realm  of  shade  and  forest,  seemed  rather  to  expand  and  deve- 
lop, than  subdue  and  overcome.  The  deep  solitude  which  re- 
ceived them  as  they  went,  seemed  to  open  the  warmer  fountains 
of  their  human  nature,  as  society  rarely  opens  them.  Thrown 
together  incessantly — forced  to  communion  by  the  repulsive 
treatment  of  the  rest — sleeping  near  each  other  by  night,  en- 
countering the  same  toils  and  dangers  by  day, — breaking  the 
same  loaf  when  they  ate,  and  naturally  inclined  to  each  other  by 
kindred  sensibilities, — it  was  soon  evident  to  each  that  the  charm 
of  their  lives  lay  chiefly  in  the  regards  of  one  another.  There 
was  a  sad  simplicity  in  both  their  natures, — a  grave  tenderness 
of  soul,  which  still  further  helped  to  cement  their  intimacy  ;  and 
it  was  soon  felt — by  Philip,  at  least, — that,  in  this  new  and 
seemingly  incongruous  relationship,  the  peculiar  pangs  and  dis- 
appointments which  he  had  experienced  in  Cuba,  were  fast  losing 
the  sharpness  and  severity  of  their  sting.  He  sometimes  won- 
dered at  himself  that  he  so  much  craved  the  companionship  of 
the  boy,  but  he  was  too  much  pleased  with  the  enjoyment  of  it 
to  question  its  sources.  When  they  were  apart  he  mused  upon 
his  fondness  with  curiosity.  Why  should  he,  a  knight  of  Portu- 
gal, feel  such  sympathy  for  this  Moorish  urchin  ?  It  was  in  vain 
that  he  recalled  the  boy's  devotion  to  himself, — his  goodness  of 
heart,  his  gentleness  of  mood,  the  quickness  of  his  mind,  the 
delicacy  of  his  fancy,  and  his  general  intelligence.  These  did  not 
suffice  to  account  for  the  hold  upon  his  affections  which  the  boy 
had  taken.  In  all  his  meditations  when  left  to  himself,  he  found 
no  solution  of  his  problem.  When  the  boy  was  at  hand,  and 
they  spoke  together,  there  was  no  problem.  It  seemed  to  him 
quite  natural,  at  such  moments,  all  the  affection  'that  he  felt, — 
all  the  sympathy  that  warmed  him  to  the  dusky  page. 


SUSPICION.  895 

To  all  others,  Juan  was  a  stone, — insensible,  unattractive — a 
sullen,  reserved  and  silent  boy, — submissive,  but  retiring;  hum- 
ble, but  not  soliciting ;  one  of  whom  nobody  entertained  thought 
or  question  ;  of  whom  the  common  speech  in  camp  was,  that  this 
page  was  just  suited  to  the  haughty  and  sullen  master.  There 
was  an  exception  perhaps  to  this  general  judgment.  Don  Bal- 
thazar de  Alvaro  was  observed  to  note  the  boy  with  a  persevering 
eye.  Juan  was  the  first  to  be  aware  of  this.  It  did  not  finally 
escape  the  notice  of  Philip ;  but  it  did  not  occasion  his  surprise 
or  curiosity.  In  the  case  of  Juan,  however,  it  was  something 
of  an  annoyance.  Had  he  been  watched,  it  would  have  been 
seen  that  he  sought  to  avoid  the  eyes  of  Don  Balthazar — that  he 
was  somewhat  agitated  when  they  met  suddenly — that  he  spoke 
with  a  slight  tremor  of  voice  in  the  hearing  of  the  Don,  and  es- 
pecially when,  as  was  sometimes  the  case,  he  was  required  to 
answer  his  demands.  It  sometimes  happened  that  Don  Baltha- 
zar sought  Vasconselos  at  his  post,  or  where  he  had  cast  himself 
down  for  the  night.  On  such  occasions — as  he  considered  the 
ostensible  subject  upon  which  the  former  came, — he  could  not 
forbear  musing  upon  its  inadequacy  as  a  plea  lor  coming.  The 
parties  did  not  love  each  other.  Their  instincts  were  hostile. 
There  could  not  be  any  cordiality  between  them  ;  and,  such  being 
the  case,  why  Don  Balthazar  should  seek  him,  unless  with  reasons 
of  necessity,  was  a  frequent  subject  of  Philip's  surprise.  At  such 
times,  he  always  drew  an  unfavorable  augury  from  his  coming. 

"  He  means  mischief,"  said  he  aloud,  one  evening,  after  the 
departure  of  Don  Balthazar  from  the  place  where  he  had  laid 
himself  down  to  rest.  "  Why  should  he  come  to  me,  and  on 
such  pretext  ?  What  is  it  to  me  whither  we  move  to-morrow, 
or  what  new  dreams  fill  the  brain  of  the  Adelantado  ?  Let  him 
march,  east  or  west,  along  the  plains,  or  among  the  mountains, 
I  care  nothing !  and,  sure,  he  knows  it.  He  knows,  too,  that  I 
love  not  his  serpent  nature,  and  his  subtle  and  treacherous  eye. 
He  knows,  too,  that  I  am  not  to  be  deceived  in  him !  Besides, 
what  can  he  seek  of  me  ?  I  am  poor  and  powerless.  He  can 
win  nothing  from  my  weakness.  If  he  comes,  he  can  only  come 
in  hate  !  Yet  what  have  I  to  fear?  Him  I  fear  not,  and  he  knows 
it  too.  Verily  I  believe,  that  did  he  not  fear  me,  he  would  have 
sought  to  slay  me  ere  this, — nevertheless — I  feel  it — by  sure 
instinct.  I  feel  it — this  man  means  mischief." 

"  He  is  a  villain !"  was  the  bitter  speech  of  Juan  from  behind 
the  tree,  where  he  had  crept  quietly. 

"  Ha !  Juan,  are  you  there,  boy  ?  But  what  do  you  know 
about  Don  Balthazar]  Ah  !  Juan,  if  you  knew  what  I  know  of 


396  VASCON3ELOS. 

that  man — had  you  but   seen  what  mine   eyes  have  looked  on 

55 

"  Seen,  Senor  1 "  was  the  faltered  inquiry. 

"  Aye,  boy,  seen !  But  it  is  not  for  you  to  hear — not  for  mor- 
tal to  hear.  Yet,  were  it  not  for  another — his  victim — one  dear 
to  me  once  as  my  own  eyes, — but  for  her, — I  had  long  since 
taken  the  monster  by  the  throat,  and  declared  his  crime  aloud, 
while  I  strangled  him  in  deadly  punishment !  You  say  right, 
Juan;  though  you  know  nothing.  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro  is 
one  of  the  blackest  of  all  the  black  villains  that  poison  and  de- 
face the  blessed  things  of  earth.  He  hath  been  my  fate — that 
man !" 

The  boy  sobbed,  "  And  mine !"  but  the  words  did  not  reach 
the  ears  of  Philip,  and  when  he  looked  round,  and  called  again  to 
the  page,  he  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Ere  he  returned  that  night, 
Vasconselos  was  asleep.  The  boy  had  eaten  no  supper.  He  crept 
close  by  his  sleeping  master,  and  watched  over  him  for  weary 
hours,  with  big  tears  gathering  fast  in  his  eyes  the  while.  When, 
at  the  dawn,  the  knight  awakened,  he  saw  Juan  sleeping,  with  his 
head  sunk  against  his  own  shoulder,  and  the  stain  of  tears  was 
still  upon  his  cheek. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

"  Hell  put  it  in 
The  enemy's  mind  to  be  desperate." 

MASSEXGBR. 

WE  can  only  give  glimpses  of  a  progress,  every  form  of 
which  was  distinguished  by  its  own  interest  and  capricious  varie- 
ties. We  have  shown,  thus  far,  the  relationships  of  our  parties ; 
and  how  they  grew,  and  what  were  their  developments.  Each 
day  gradually  contributed  to  unfold  the  increasing  dependence  of 
Don  Philip  and  his  page  upon  one  another;  and  both  were 
watched,  though  neither  perhaps  saw  to  what  extent,  by  the  ser- 
pent eyes  of  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro.  Meanwhile,  Philip  de 
Vasconselos  seemed  to  grow  less  and  less  in  favor  with  the  Ade- 
lantado,  who  now  rarely  summoned  him  to  his  service ;  and, 
except  when  they  met,  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  existence. 
On  such  occasions  there  was  an  evident  distance  of  manner  in 
the  bearing  of  De  Soto,  amounting  almost  to  repugnance,  which 
increased  the  regrets  of  Philip  that  he  had  ever  joined  the  expe- 
dition. His  mortification  at  having  done  so,  would  have  been 
unendurable,  but  for  a  certain  indifference  of  mood,  which  ren- 
dered him  reckless  what  became  of  him, — reckless  of  all  things, 
•indeed  ;  and  made  him  just  as  well  satisfied  to  rove  without  a 
purpose,  and  fight  without  a  cause,  as  to  sleep  beneath  his  tree, 
when  the  day  had  closed  in  exhaustion.  Latterly,  his  feeling 
grew  less  indifferent.  He  seemed  to  be  slowly  acquiring  a  new 
interest  in  life.  He  was  conscious  of  more  impulse,  of  aim, 
and  objects,  vague,  indeed,  enough,  and  which  he  did  not  seek  to 
pursue,  but  which  served  to  show  that  life  for  him  still  had  its 
resources,  even  its  attractions,  and  was  not  wholly  denied  an 
object.  But  if  the  question  as  to  that  object  was  asked  of  Don 
Philip,  he  would  have  been  without  an  answer.  Enough  that 
under  existing  circumstances,  he  could  find  his  associations  still 
endurable  ; — without  an  object  in  life,  he  could  yet  find  life  not 
wholly  a  burden  and  a  curse ! 

The  brooding  mind  was  not  suffered  much  opportunity  for  ex- 
ercise, in  the  progress  pursued  by  De  Soto.  That  ambitious  chief- 
tain, in  his  appetite  for  conquest  and  power,  kept  his  followers 
sleepless.  We  may  now,  with  tolerable  certainty,  follow  the 
route  of  the  Spaniards  upon  the  map,  and  trace  their  course  from 

(397) 


898  VASCONSELOS. 

the  Bay  of  Tampa,  into  and  through  Georgia,  even  to  South 
Carolina.  Their  progress  was  erratic.  They  were  easily  tempted 
aside  by  lures  of  gold,  in  this  or  that  quarter;  and  the  imperfect- 
ly understood  reports  of  this  or  that  Indian  guide,  frequently 
misled  them  from  the  direct  course,  to  wild  adventures,  and 
strange  episodes,  which  diverted  them  from  the  true  discovery. 
In  all  their  progresses  danger  hung  upon  them  in  the  rear,  and 
disappointment  stood  in  waiting  for  their  approach.  One  or  two 
adventures  briefly  narrated,  will  serve  to  illustrate  their  daily 
history;  and  we  linger  over,  a  single  instance,  which  enabled 
Vasconselos  to  recover  a  portion  of  De  Solo's  favor. 

There  was  a  Floridian  Chieftain,  or  King,  named  Vitachuco, 
who  had  stubbornly  resisted  all  the  approaches  of  Soto.  The 
latter,  by  treachery,  contrived  to  secure  the  person  of  this  Chief- 
tain. His  next  object  was  to  win  his  favor — a  measure  conceived 
to  be  by  no  means  difficult,  inasmuch  as  the  Adelantedo,  in 
making  captive  the  Chief,  had  slaughtered  near  a  thousand  of  his 
warriors,  who  had  sought  to  rescue  his  person.  Vitachuco,  though 
kept  as  a  prisoner,  and  watched,  was  still  allowed  certain  privi- 
leges.  He  ate  at  the.  table  of  Soto.  He  was  still  able  to  com- 
mune with  his  subjects,  hundreds  of  whom  were  employed  about 
the  Spaniards,  as  slaves  and  drudges.  To  these  Vitachuco  com- 
municated his  secret  thoughts  and  purposes.  He  was  not  a 
willing  captive.  But  he  was  politic.  He  met  subtlety  with 
subtlety.  He  suppressed  his  indignation, — appeared  not  to  see 
the  restraint  put  upon  his  footsteps,  and  so  behaved,  as  entirely 
to  disarm  the  suspicions  of  his  captors.  But  the  fiery  indigna- 
tion was  working  in  his  soul,  and  he  only  wanted  the  proper 
moment  and  Opportunity,  in  which  to  break  his  bonds,  and 
avenge  himself  upon  his  captors.  This  design  was  reserved  for 
a  day  of  feasting,  when  Soto  entertained  his  captive  along  with 
other  nobles  and  princes  of  the  Apalachians,  held  in  similar 
bonds  with  their  superior,  or  of  other  tribes  whom  he  desired  to 
conciliate.  Vitachuco  was  too  impatient  of  his  injuries  to  think 
wisely,  or  to  resolve  with  prudence.  He  did  not  heed  the  fact 
that  himself  and  followers  were  unarmed,  and  were  to  grapple, 
if  grapple  they  did,  with  foes  who  never  laid  aside  their  weapons 
or  their  mail.  The  fearless  savage  resolved  to  try  the  struggle 
at  all  odds,  unprepared  as  he  was,  at  the  approaching  repast ;  of 
which  he  had  due  intimations.  The  four  pages  or  servants,  that 
waited  upon  him,  were  all  boys,  but  he  entrusted  them  with  his 
secret.  They  communicated  with  such  warriors  as  he  himself 
could  not  see ;  and  the  plan  was  rapidly  matured  for  execution 
the  very  next  day,  being  the  day  assigned  for  the  feasting. 


TREACHERY.  399 

According  to  their  plan,  Vitachuco  was  to  spring  upon  the  Ade- 
lantado,  and  kill  him  if  he  could,  while  they  were  at  dinner;  his 
followers  doing  the  same  good  service  for  all  the  Spaniards  pre- 
sent— and,  without,  for  all  others  upon  whom  they  could  lay 
hands.  The  village  of  Vitachuco  was  to  be  the  scene  of  action. 

It  happened,  the  evening  before  the  event,  that  Juan,  the  page 
of  Vasconselos,  remarked  the  activity  of  Vitachuco's  pages,  and 
that  they  held  frequent  communications  with  their  people. 
Crowds  of  the  red  men  were  seen  coming  to  the  encampment, 
or  crowding  stealthily  about  it.  The  place  where  Vascouselos 
found  shelter,  usually,  on  the  verge  of  the  encampment,  was  fa- 
vorable to  observation  ;  and  the  constant  coming  and  departure 
of  the  Floridians,  compelled  the  boy's  observation,  and  prompted 
him  to  communicate  with  the  knight,  his  master.  They  both 
watched,  and  discovered  enough,  at  all  events,  to  render  them 
suspicious.  They  redoubled  their  vigilance,  and  found  that  some 
provisions,  rather  novel  for  a  feast,  had  been  made  by  the  sava-' 
ges.  They  found  hidden  in  the  contiguous  woods,  large  bundles 
of  darts,  barbed  with  flints,  that  were  ready  for  use ;  and  scores 
of  huge  macanas  or  war  maces,  edged  with  flint  also,  a  single 
blow  from  which,  in  a  moderately  strong  hand,  would  cleave  the 
skull  of  any  Spaniard,  though  covered  with  helm  of  steel. 

To  effect  these  discoveries,  and  to  guard  in  some  degree  against 
the  designs  of  the  savages,  by  putting  the  army  on  the  qui  vice, 
was  a  work  of  time,  and  the  Adelantado  was  already  at  dinner 
with  his  treacherous  guests,  ere  Philip  de  Vasconselos  was  pre- 
pared to  unfold  his  discoveries.  Now, — speaking  of  things 
without  regard  to  persons — the  Spaniards  were  quite  as  treacher- 
ous as  the  Floridians  ;  and  it  was  with  a  bitter  smile  and  sneer 
that  Philip,  commenting  upon  the  small  claims  of  the  former 
upon  his  fidelity,  said  to  Juan  : — 

"  It  is  liar  against  liar,  serpent  against  serpent ! — what  have 
we  to  do  with  it,  boy  ?  It  were  just  as  well  that  we  should  see 
them  strive  together,  and  clap  hands  equally  to  behold  the  good 
stroke  delivered  by  Floridian  or  Spaniard  !" 

But  the  sympathies  of  race  and  education  prevailed,  and  the 
white  chieftain,  with  a  feeling  of  unutterable  scorn,  which  he  con- 
cealed under  the  most  courtly  demeanor,  suddenly  appeared  at 
the  place  of  feasting, — to  which  he  had  not  been  invited, — when 
all  was  most  hilarious,  and  the  Adelantado  as  little  dreaming  of 
the  dessert  which  the  Floridian  had  provided,  as  of  any  other 
good  blessing,  with  which  he  might  profitably  dispense.  Vas- 
conselos, as  we  say,  suddenly  appeared  within  the  circle,  and  for 
a  moment,  quietly  surveyed  it  withc'it  speaking. 


400  VASCONSELOS. 

Whether  it  was  that  the  scorn  which  he  felt,  somewhat  showed 
itself  in  his  features,  or  that  the  Adelautado  was  in  no  mood  to 
behold  him  with  toleration,  whom  he  had  not  received  to  favor, 
is  not  easy  to  be  said.  It  is  certain,  however,  that  Soto  some- 
what forgot  his  courtesy  in  the  reception  which  he  gave  the 
knight  of  Portugal.  With  a  stern  look  and  chilling  accents,  he 
cried  out,  as  he  beheld  him  : — 

"  How  now,  Sir  Knight  of  Portugal,  what  is  it  brings  you  to 
this  presence  at  this  unseemly  moment  ?  We  had  not  anticipat- 
ed the  honor  of  your  attendance." 

The  brow  of  the  knight  of  Portugal  grew  black  as  he  replied : 

"  Senor  Don  Hernan  de  Soto,  Philip  de  Vasconselos  asks  no 
favor  or  courtesy  from  any  man  alive  !  He  comes  not  now  as  a 
courtier,  or  as  a  guest,  but  as  a  soldier,  who  shrinks  from  no  duty 
even  when  it  needs  that  he  should  appear  where  he  is  never  wel- 
come !  What  I  have  to  say,  by  way  of  apology  for  my  presence 
now,  is  soon  spoken.  Ask  of  the  savages  whom  you  feast,  why 
our  camp  is  girdled  by  a  thousand  red  warriors,  why  the  pages 
of  their  prince  have  been  in  such  frequent  communion  with  them, 
and  why,  all  on  a  sudden,  such  provision  as  this  is  made,  at  cou- 
venient  places,  in  all  the  neighboring  woods?" 

Saying  these  words,  he  took  from  an  attendant,  and  threw 
down  upon  the  board,  and  amidst  the  guests,  bundles  of  darts, 
wrapt  in  skins  of  the  rattle-snake,  and  a  score  of  the  heavy 
macanas,  such  as  we  have  described  already.  At  the  sight  of 
these  objects,  and  before  the  Adelantado  could  reply  to  what  he 
conceived  the  insolent  speech  of  Vasconselos — insolent  in  sense 
as  in  tone — the  war-whoop  rang  wildly  through  the  hall ;  a  ter- 
rible yell  that  shook  the  hearts  of  the  assembly,  as  with  a  sudden 
voice  of  doom.  Vitachuco,  from  whom  the  signal  came,  started 
to  his  feet  at  the  same  moment,  and,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
he  sprang,  like  a  tiger,  full  upon  Soto.  With  one  hand  he 
seized  him  by  the  collar,  while,  with  the  other,  he  dealt  him  such 
a  blow  between  the  eyes,  as  made  the  blood  fly,  and  prostrated 
the  Adelantado  to  the  floor,  as  heavily  as  falls  the  ox  beneath  the 
stroke  of  the  butcher! 

All  was  confusion  in  that  moment.  Terribly  did  this  war- 
whoop  of  the  savages  ring  throughout  the  hall  ; — and  without — • 
through  all  the  avenues  of  the  village,  where  the  followers  of 
Vitachuco  were  collecting  at  the  signal,  as  had  been  agreed  on 
among  them.  The  Spaniards,  never  dreaming  of  attack  from  un- 
armed savages,  were  taken  completely  by  surprise.  The  Ade- 
lantado lay  stunned  and  senseless  beneath  the  grasp  of  Vita- 
chuco, and  all  was  confusion,  and  uncertainty,  within  and  with- 


SUDDEN   CONFLICT.  401 

out.  The  Indians,  everywhere,  seized  whatever  implements  they 
could  lay  hands  upon  for  weapons.  Some  grasped  the  pikes  and 
swords  of  the  Spaniards ;  others  snatched  the  pots  from  the  fire, 
and  emptied  the  contents  over  their  foes,  while  beating  them, 
about  the  head  with  the  vessels.  Plates,  pitchers,  jars,  the  pes- 
tles from  the  mortars  wherein  they  pounded  maize ;  stools, 
benches,  tables,  billets  of  wood  ;  in  the  hands  of  the  fierce  Flo- 
ridians  became  instruments  of  war  and  vengeance  !  Never  had 
such  a  fight  been  seen ;  so  promiscuous  ;  urged  with  such  novel 
weapons  ;  and  so  full  of  terror  and  confusion.  The  terror  and 
danger  of  the  scene  were  duly  increased  by  others  yet,  who, 
plucking  the  flaming  brands  of  lightwood  from  the  fire,  darted 
into  the  thickest  of  the  fray,  shouting  like  furies,  and  looking 
more  like  demons  from  the  infernal  regions  than  mere  mortal 
combatants  ! 

Such  was  the  scene  and  the  character  of  the  struggle  through- 
out the  Village.  The  Spaniards  recovered  themselves  promptly 
and  fought  desperately,  and  conquered  finally  ;  but  they  suffered 
severely.  Besides  those  who  perished,  many  were  terribly 
bruised,  scalded,  burnt,  and  maimed.  Arms  were  broken,  teeth 
knocked  out,  faces  scarred  for  ever ;  the  very  handcuffs  on  the 
wrists  of  many  of  the  savages,  becoming  fearful  means  of  in- 
jury and  assault  in  the  promiscuous  and  close  struggle,  hand  to 
hand. 

In  the  hall  of  the  great  house  of  the  village  where  the  Ade- 
lantado  had  feasted  the  Cassique,  the  conflict,  though  involving 
smaller  numbers,  was  no  less  fearful  and  savage  in  its  character. 
But  for  the  presence  of  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  and  his  active 
energies  and  vigilance,  Soto,  and  all  the  party,  must  have  pe- 
rished. The  Adelantado,  as  we  have  seen,  was  stunned  by  the 
first  desperate  assault  of  the  Indian  Chief.  The  latter  clung  to 
his  victim,  and  would  very  soon  have  finished  his  work,  but  for 
the  quick  movement  of  Philip,  who  darted  to  the  rescue,  and 
passed  his  sword  through  the  body  of  the  savage,  while,  tiger-like, 
he  was  tearing  the  neck  of  the  Adelantado.  The  Spanish  knights, 
at  this  sight,  recovered  from  their  consternation,  and  a  dozen 
swords  were  crossed  in  an  instant  in  the  body  of  Vitachuco. 
The  furious  savage  died  without  a  groan,  glaring,  with  fellest  rage, 
upon  his  enemies,  in  the  very  moment  when  his  last  breath  was 
passing.  The  Indians  who  remained  in  the  hall  were  dispatched 
in  like  manner,  but  not  before  they  had  inflicted  hurts  upon  the 
Spaniards  which  left  their  ghastly  marks  through  life.  The  end 
was  massacre.  Discipline  prevailed  over  rude  and  ferocious 
valor.  The  people  of  Vitachuco,  thirteen  hundred  warriors,  tho 


402  VASCONPELOS. 

flower  of  his  nation,  perished  in  the  affair,  or  were  butchered 
after  it.  Such  is  a  sample  of  the  fierce  character  of  the  red  men 
of  Florida,  their  desperate  valor,  and  the  sleepless  passion  for 
freedom,  which  they  indulged  at  every  peril.  The  character  re- 
mains unchanged  to  this  day.  The  people  of  Vitachuco  occupied 
the  same  region  which  the  Seminoles  maintained,  with  such  sur- 
prising skill  and  courage,  for  five  years,  against  the  army  of  the 
United  States,  in  recent  times. 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

PAUL. — "Did  you  note 

The  majesty  she  appears  in  .* 
CLEON. — Yes,  my  good  Lord  ; 

I  was  ravished  with  it." 

MASSIXGER. 

THIS  event  had  a  considerable  effect  in  restoring  Vasconselos 
to  the  favor  of  De  Soto.  The  Adelantado  could  not  ungracious- 
ly forbear  to  acknowledge  a  service  to  which  he  owed  his  own 
life  and  probably  the  safety  of  his  army.  He,  accordingly, 
thanked  Philip  in  stately  language,  hidalgo-fashion,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  all  his  troops.  But  his  pride  kept  him  still  in  memory 
of  that  haughty  reserve  of  the  Portuguese  cavalier,  which  had  so 
offended  his  amour  propre  at  first;  and  as  Philip,  while  as  courte- 
ously receiving  the  compliment  of  the  Adelantado,  in  a  style  not 
dissimilar  from  that  in  which  it  was  couched,  abated  nothing  of 
his  own  dignity,  it  followed,  that  the  debt  which  De  Soto  felt, 
of  gratitude,  was  rather  irksome  and  burdensome,  than  grateful 
to  that  haughty  cavalier.  He  had,  besides,  ever  at  hand,  whis- 
pering insidious  suggestions  in  his  ear,  the  wily  Don  Balthazar 
de  Alvaro.  This  kuight  did  not  suffer  the  natural  feelings  of  De 
Soto  to  have  full  play  at  any  time,  in  his  relations  to  the  Portu- 
guese. But  for  his  constant  labors,  it  might  have  been  that  what 
was  naturally  noble  in  the  bosom  of  the  Adelantado,  would  have 
asserted  itself  to  the  extent  of  doing  full  justice  to  the  merits  of 
Philip  ;  and  giving  full  exercise  to  his  own  proper  courtesy  and 
honor.  As  it  was,  the  intercourse  between  the  knight  of  Portu- 
gal and  the  Spanish  Chief,  though  more  courteous  and  gracious 
than  before,  was  scarcely  more  cordial ;  and  Philip  remained,  as 
before,  companioned  only  by  the  page  Juan,  who  clung  to  him 
more  closely  than  ever,  and  grew  daily  more  and  more  necessary 
to  his  affections. 

We  pass  now  over  a  considerable  tract  of  time,  of  which  we 
shall  make  no  record,  but  which,  though  full  of  toils  and  strifes, 
trials  and  vicissitudes,  found  our  dramatis  personce  unchanged  in 
their  several  relations.  The  army,  meanwhile,  had  marched  from 
Florida  into  Georgia,  had  crossed  that  State,  and  at  length  ;ip- 
proached  the  waters  of  the  Savannah.  In  the  province  of  Cofa, 
however.  De  Soto  experienced  an  embarrassment  in  his  progress, 
which  rendered  it  necessary  that  Philip  de  Vasconselos  should  be 
again  conciliated.  The  dialect  of  the  red  men  changed,  and  the 

(403^ 


404  VASCONSELOS. 

interpreter,  Juan  Ortiz,  was  no  longer  competent  to  act  in  this 
capacity.  Philip  had  traversed  this  very  region.  He  took  the 
place  of  Ortiz;  negotiated  with  the  Cassique  of  Cofa;  and  once 
more  had  the  satisfaction,  if  any  it  were,  of  seeing  the  eyes  of  the 
Adelantado  turned  upon  him  with  favor.  But  the  Portuguese 
knight  regarded  these  kindly  demonstrations  with  indifference. 
He  had  survived  all  care,  in  respect  to  the  carriage  of  the  Cas- 
tilian  Captain,  and  his  followers ;  and  simply  contented  himself 
with  the  performance  of  his  duty,  as  it  rose,  without  giving  any 
heed  to  the  profit  or  the  loss  which  might  follow  upon  his  toils. 
With  the  Cassique  of  Cofa,  he  concluded  an  amicable  treaty, 
which  secured  the  support  and  friendship  of  a  very  potent  savage. 
From  him,  however,  it  was  learned  that  there  were  more  power- 
ful potentates,  yet  beyond  them,  to  the  east,  whom  it  was  even 
more  necessary  to  conciliate.  Much  was  said  of  a  Princess,  or 
Queen  of  Cofachiqui, — a  province  just  beyond ;  the  population 
of  which  was  very  numerous,  and  the  territory  very  fertile.  It 
was  reported  to  be  very  rich,  also,  in  gold,  pearls,  and  other  pre- 
cious treasures.  The  young  Princess  who  ruled  the  country  had 
lately  come  to  her  throne.  She  was  pronounced  to  be  beautiful 
beyond  description,  and  the  imagination  of  the  Adelantado  was 
greatly  inflamed  by  what  he  heard,  of  the  surpassing  beauty  of 
the  maiden,  her  vast  empire,  her  great  treasures,  and  the  wealth 
and  power  of  her  connections.  Pier  blood  mingled  with  that  of 
the  great  Chieftains  and  Princes  who  ruled  along  the  waters  of 
Chatahoochie,  Alabama,  and  Mississippi.  The  Cassique  of  Cofa, 
very  powerful  as  he  himself  claimed  to  be,  yet  acknowledged  his 
inferiority  to  this  Princess ;  his  incapacity  to  encounter  her  troops 
in  war,  and  the  fear  which  he  felt  of  provoking  her  hostility. 
Patofa,  the  chief  in  question,  hated  as  he  feared ;  and  we  may 
add  that,  with  savage  cunning  and  ferocity,  he  continued,  under 
the  sheltering  wing  of  the  Spaniards,  to  execute  no  little  mischief 
upon  the  people  and  country  of  the  power  which  he  loathed  and 
dreaded  ;  butchering  without  remorse,  and  plundering,  whenever 
he  had  the  opportunity  of  doing  so  in  secret.  For  these  reasons, 
De  Soto  was  compelled,  however  reluctantly,  to  dismiss  the 
savage  chieftain  to  his  own  country,  with  all  his  followers.  His 
policy  was  conciliation  ;  particularly  in  the  case  of  a  Princess  so 
beautiful,  so  well  connected,  so  wealthy  and  powerful,  as  her  of 
Cofachiqui,  whose  territories  he  had  already  penetrated,  and 
whose  chief  settlements,  on  the  banks  of  the  Savannah,  he  was 
now  approaching  with  all  possible  expedition. 

It  was  at  a  spot  on  the  west  side  of  the  Savannah,  just  where 
the  river  sweeps  boldly  beneath  the  shining  walls  of  Silver  Bluff, 


COFACHIQUI.  405 

that  the  Adelantado,  with  a  select  detachment  of  a  hundred 
cavalry,  and  as  many  infantry,  emerged  from  the  great  forests, 
with  the  view  to  the  passage  of  the  stream.  The  noble  river  lay 
broad  before  him  in  the  cloudless  light  of  a  noon-day  sun.  On 
the  depressed  position  which  he  occupied,  an  esplanade  of  swamp, 
liable  to  occasional  overflow  of  the  freshets  from  the  rapid  rising 
of  the  waters,  he  looked  up  to  the  high  banks  on  the  opposite  shore 
— now  of  Carolina — and  surveyed  a  prospect  before  him  with  un- 
qualified admiration.  The  mighty  forest  ranges  had  been  scarcely 
broken  in  any  quarter ;  and  the  gigantic  oak,  the  hickory,  the  mul- 
berry, and  black  walnut,  stood  up,  and  spread  away  in  mighty 
ranks,  solemnizing  the  scene  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach.  Ter- 
minating long  vistas,  rose  the  rustic  cots  and  cabins  of  the  people 
of  Cofachiqui,  stretching  in  a  half  circle,  which  followed  the  course 
of  the  stream,  and  sufficiently  nigh  to  enable  the  inhabitants  to 
take  their  fish  from  its  waters,  without  inconvenience,  to  their 
nomes.  Conical  mounts,  and  terraces,  artificial  areas,  consecrated 
to  religious  rites,  or  public  sports  and  gatherings,  relieved,  with 
the  villages,  the  monotony  of  the  unbroken  forest.  Upon  a  bold 
promontory  to  the  right,  surrounded  by  trees  of  the  greatest  ago, 
and  most  remarkable  aspect,  rose  up  the  temple  of  the  tribe: 
a  rude  but  picturesque  edifice  of  logs,  encircled  with  pillars, 
around  which  the  wild  vine  had  been  trained  to  run.  So  that  the 
whole  fabric,  relieved  of  all  rudeness  to  the  eye,  seemed  to  be  the 
handiwork  of  the  endowing  Spring  herself;  a  green  and  purple 
trophy,  vines,  flowers  and  fruit,  worthy  to  be  the  scene  of  inno- 
cent rites,  and  the  religion  of  a  pure  and  simple-hearted  people. 
It  was  surrounded  by  tumuli — by  the  graves  of  ages,  overgrown 
in  like  manner  with  shrubs  and  vines.  In  the  recesses  of  the 
temple,  were  other  treasures  of  nature  and  trophies  of  art. 
There,  subsequently,  the  Adelantado  gathered  heaps  of  pearl — 
bushels  of  treasure  to  the  Spaniards ; — and  there  also  were  found 
some  melancholy  memorials  of  their  own  and  other  European 
people.  Shields,  and  helmets,  and  daggers,  and  spear-heads, 
cast  away  by  the  followers  of  Cabeza  de  Vaca,  or  more  probably 
by  those  of  the  cruel  and  luckless  Vasquez  de  Ayllen,  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Combahee,  which,  according  to  Indian  computation, 
was  but  two  days' journey  from  Silver  Bluff.  But  we  must  not 
anticipate. 

When  the  brilliant  cavalcade  of  the  Spanish  Chieftain  arrived 
at  the  west  bank  of  the  Savannah,  he  found  the  opposite  shore 
covered  with  groups  of  the  red  men,  looking  out  and  watching 
his  approach.  The  signs  of  vigilance  and  confident  strength 
were  everywhere  present  to  his  eyes.  The  boats  were  numerous 


406  VASCONSELOS. 

along  the  banks,  but  they  were  all  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  river. 
Bands  of  warriors  might  be  seen  hastily  arraying  themselves  in 
their  rude  armor,  and  hurrying, — each  as  he  made  himself  ready 
—  with  javelin,  and  spear,  and  bow,  to  join  the  crowds  that  ga- 
thered by  the  river.  Conspicuous  among  those  upon  the  banks, 
were  to  be  noticed  a  group  of  six  persons,  of  very  noble  appear- 
ance, all  of  whom  had  passed  the  middle  period  of  life.  To 
these,  great  deference  was  shown,  and  soon  a  great  canoe,  pro- 
pelled by  several  strong  rowers,  approached  the  spot  where  they 
stood.  They  entered  the  canoe  in  silence,  and,  a  moment  after, 
it  shot  across  the  stream  to  the  spot  where  De  Soto  had  arrived, 
at  the  head  of  his  array.  The  fearless  chieftains  of  the  forest 
approached  him  with  a  calm  dignity,  and  a  noble  grace,  which 
struck  the  Adelantado  with  surprise,  and  compelled  his  respect. 
He  soon  perceived  that  he  stood  in  the  presence  of  a  people,  very 
far  superior  to  those  whom  he  had  hitherto  encountered  in  the 
forests  of  the  Floridian — superior  in  grace  and  art,  if  not  in  valor. 
De  Soto  hastily  seated  himself  in  a  chair  of  state,  which  he  carried 
with  him  for  occasions  like  the  present.  The  deputation  of  Chiefs 
made  three  reverences  as  they  drew  nigh, — one  to  the  east,  a 
second  to  the  west,  and  a  third  to  the  Spanish  Chieftain.  Then, 
they  spoke  through  one  of  their  party,  a  lofty  and  venerable  man, 
whose  brow  and  bearing  declared  for  habitual  authority,  and  the 
consciousness  of  power.  He  demanded  briefly — 

"  Wherefore  do  you  come,  stranger  1   Is  it  for  peace  or  war  V 
Philip  de  Vasconselos  interpreted,  and  reported  the  answer  for 
the  Adelantado  in  the  language  of  Cofachiqui. 

"  For  Peace  !  we  are  friends.  We  ask  only  for  a  free  passage 
through  the  lands  of  your  people,  and  their  help,  with  raft  and 
canoe,  in  crossing  your  big  rivers.  We  will  pay  for  these  helps 
hi  goods  of  our  country." 

A  long  and  pacific  conference  followed.  The  red  men  were  too 
well  assured  of  their  own  power  to  dread  the  small  array  of 
strangers  before  them.  They  knew  not  of  the  fearful  weapons 
which  they  bore,  and  the  powerful  arts  which  they  possessed. 
At  the  close  of  the  conference,  the  Chief  of  the  deputation,  re- 
peating his  friendly  assurances,  said  that  he  must  receive  the 
commands  of  Co<jalla,  the  young  Queen,  his  mistress.  She  was 
young — had  but  lately  assumed  dominion  over  them,  and  they 
were  required  to  consult  deliberately  before  they  perilled  her 
authority,  or  the  peace  of  the  country,  by  any  action  of  their 
own.  But  he  did  not  doubt,  that,  from  the  generous  nature  of 
this  princess,  she  would  do  all  in  her  power  to  promote  the  ob- 
jects of  the  strangers. 


THE   PBINCESS   COCALLA.  407 

They  did  not  err  in  this  conjecture.  Perhaps,  their  own  report 
prompted  her  compliance,  or,  at  all  events,  provoked  her  curi- 
osity. It  was  not  long  after  their  return  to  the  settlements,  when 
the  attention  of  the  Spaniards  was  drawn  to  shows  of  great  bus- 
tle and  preparation  along  the  opposite  shore.  The  crowd  con- 
tinued to  gather.  There  were  sounds  of  conchs,  and  the  oc- 
casional clamor  of  rattle  and  drum,  regularly  timed,  and  signifi- 
cant of  a  gathering  and  a  march.  \Vhile  the  Spaniards  gazed, 
curious  and  anxious,  a  procession  was  beheld  emerging  from  the 
woods,  in  the  midst  of  which,  seated  upon  a  sort  of  palanquin, 
and  borne  upon  the  shoulders  of  six  able  men,  was  the  form  of 
a  young  maiden,  who  was  readily  conceived  to  be  the  Princess 
of  the  country.  The  palanquin  was  wreathed  with  vines  and 
flowers,  and  gay  streamers  of  stained  cotton  floated  above  it  on 
every  side.  The  cushions  upon  which  the  damsel  half  reclined, 
rather  than  sat,  were  spread  with  robes  of  the  same  richly  dyed 
material.  She  was  clad  in  similar  stuffs,  but  of  finer  quality, 
and  rich  fringe  depended  from  her  skirts  and  shoulders.  Her 
hair,  black  as  ebony,  and  glossily  bright,  floated  free,  but  was 
woven  thick  with  ropes  of  pearl ;  frequent  strands  of  pearl  en- 
circled her  neck,  falling  free  upon  her  bosom.  Her  sandals 
were  also  sown  with  pearl,  and  she  wore  anklets  of  the  same 
precious  decorations.  Numerous  young  girls,  bearing  baskets  of 
(lowers,  and  habited  like  herself,  followed  in  her  train;  and  she 
was  attended  by  goodly  bands  of  spearmen  and  archers,  all 
richly  and  picturesquely  habited,  and  equally  prepared  for  action 
and  display.  Before  her,  went  several  musicians,  who  blew  the 
conch,  shook  the  rattle,  beat  the  drum,  and  played  upon  a  rude 
sort  of  syrinx  made  of  reeds,  which  gave  forth  a  long  succession 
of  sweet  but  melancholy  sounds.  Others  kept  pace  close  beside  the 
litter,  whose  office  it  was  to  wave  before  her  huge  fans  of  parti- 
colored feathers,  the  plumage  of  the  wild  birds  of  the  Floridian, 
gathered  from  all  quarters,  and  wrought  with  an  art  which  leaves 
the  modern  fan  of  Europe  but  little  of  superiority  to  boast. 

In  this  state,  the  Spaniards  were  allowed  to  behold  her  pro- 
gress through  the  forests  for  awhile,  when  she  suddenly  disap- 
peared in  its  deeper  recesses  with  all  her  train.  But  her  disap- 
pearance was  for  a  brief  space  only.  Very  soon  a  great  canoe, 
of  the  largest  size  and  most  magnificently  decorated,  with  cu>-li- 
ions,  and  canopies,  and  broad  fringes  and  streamers  of  richly  and 
variously  stained  cotton,  was  seen  to  emerge  from  the  mouth  of 
a  creek  that  ran  close  beside  the  promontory  on  which  stood  the 
sylvan  temple  of  Cofachiqui.  In  this  canoe,  under  the  canopy, 
reclined  the  princess  in  the  stern,  upon  a  pile,  of  cushions.  She 


408  VASCOKSELOS. 

was  attended  by  eight  beautiful  girls,  only  less  richly  habited 
than  herself.  Her  barge  was  accompanied,  or  rather  led,  by 
another  of  like  dimensions,  in  which  sat  the  six  chieftains  who 
had  constituted  the  deputation.  A  cloud  of  canoes,  of  all  sizes, 
filled  with  warriors,  followed  after  and  closed  the  procession, 
which  now,  under  the  impelling  strokes  of  hardy  rowers,  soon 
made  its  way  to  the  opposite  shore.  When  arrived,  the  young 
princess,  unassisted,  but  followed  by  all  her  train,  stept  fearlessly 
to  the  land,  and  the  Spaniards  were  greatly  struck  by  the  elegant 
grace  of  her  movements,  the  admirable  symmetry  of  her  form, 
the  beauty  and  innocence,  as  well  as  intelligence  of  her  face, 
and  the  picturesque  appropriateness  of  her  costume.  De  Soto 
made  the  most  imposing  preparations  to  give  her  corresponding 
welcome.  Her  obeisance  to  the  Adelantado  was  full  of  p^race 
and  dignity  ;  and  this  made,  she  seated  herself  on  a  sort  of  stool, 
which  her  attendant  had  brought  with  her  for  the  purpose,  though 
De  Soto  motioned  her  to  the  chair  of  state  from  which  he  him- 
self had  arisen. 

A  long  and  interesting  conference  ensued  between  the  parties, 
carried  on  through  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  on  whom,  it  was  ob- 
served by  more  than  one,  that  the  fair  princess  bestowed  the 
most  encouraging  smiles,  speaking  with  as  much  sweetness,  as 
ease  and  dignity.  But  the  sad  face  of  Philip  never  once  changed 
through  the  whole  conference.  He  was  gentle  and  respectful, 
but  calm,  subdued,  and  too  melancholy  to  note  how  flattering  to 
himself  were  the  looks  of  the  beautiful  Cassique.  But  Juan,  the 
page,  noted  it  as  well  as  others ;  and  he  turned  away  from  the 
sight  as  if  disquieted,  and  retired  into  the  rear,  seating  himself 
gloomily,  beneath  the  old  trees  of  the  forest.  Juan  Ortiz,  the 
former  interpreter,  too,  was  among  the  persons  who  thought  the 
princess  was  quite  too  gracious  in  her  bearing  to  a  poor  knight 
of  Portugal,  when  an  Adelantado  of  the  Castilian  was  present ; 
and  De  Soto  himself  more  than  once  looked  on  with  cloudy 
visage,  as  he  beheld  the  smiles  given  to  Philip,  which  he  thought 
were  properly  due  only  to  himself.  The  conference  was  long, 
but  satisfactory  in  high  degree  to  the  Spaniards.  At  the  close, 
and  when  the  princess  was  about  to  depart,  she  rose,  and  un- 
winding the  strings  of  pearl  from  about  her  neck,  would  have 
thrown  them  over  that  of  the  interpreter,  but  he  recoiled  from 
the  dangerous  honor,  and  motioned  to  De  Soto.  But  the  princess 
hesitated. 

"  Will  not  the  warrior  who  speaks  of  strange  things  in  the  ear 
of  Co§nlla,  the  Queen,  wear  the  pearls  which  have  been  about 
her  neck  ?" 


PHILIP   IN   FAVOR.  409 

"  Such  gifts,  beautiful  Co^alla,  are  only  for  a  great  chief  to 
wear.  In  the  noble  person  who  sits  in  the  chair  of  state,  you 
behold  the  great  chief  of  our  people.  He  will  be  proud  to  wear 
the  pearls  of  the  Queen  of  Cofachiqui." 

She  looked  reproachfully  at  the  knight  of  Portugal,  and  still 
hesitated,  the  pearls  hanging  from  her  hands.  De  Soto  had  ob- 
served her  movements  keenly.  He  suspected  the  truth. 

"  What  says  she,  Don  Philip  ?"  was  his  stern  and  sudden  ques- 
tion to  the  knight. 

It  was  with  a  blush  that  Philip  felt  the  necessity  of  evading, 
or  suppressing,  the  truth. 

"  The  princess  would  bestow  upon  the  Adelantado  the  pearls 
which  she  carries  in  her  hands,  but  fears  to  violate  decorum.  She 
would  have  me  bestow  them  ;  but  I  have  counselled  her  that 
the  honor  will  be  more  graciously  felt,  if  she  will  make  the  gift 
with  her- own  hands." 

"  Thou  art  right,"  was  the  reply  of  the  Adelantado,  and  he  ap- 
proached more  closely  and  bowed  his  head.  Slowly  and  reluc- 
tantly still,  but  obeying  the  sign  made  by  Don  Philip,  the 
princess  cast  the  heavy  strands  over  the  shoulders  of  the  Adelan- 
tado, who,  seizing  her  hand  as  she  did  so,  passed  a  rich  gold  ring, 
with  a  ruby,  over  one  of  her  fingers. 

With  this  ceremonial,  the  conference  ended.  The  princess  had 
complied  with  the  desires  of  the  Spaniards.  Her  boats  conveyed 
them  across  the  river  ;  her  people  brought  them  provisions;  she 
received  them  in  her  village  with  favor ;  and,  for  a  season,  there 
was  nothing  but  mutual  pleasure  and  gratification  among  the 
parties.  The  Spaniards  were  delighted  with  the  grace  and  beauty 
of  the  queen,  at  which  they  greatly  wondered;  and  she,  as  well 
as  her  people,  was  equally  charmed  with  the  curious  strangers 
who  brought  with  them  so  many  strange  and  charming  objects. 
In  particular,  she  thought  long,  and  dwelt  much,  to  her  attendants, 
upon  the  handsome  warrior,  whose  voice  was  so  sweet  within 
her  ears.  She  likened  his  speech  to  that  of  the  '  trick  tongue'  (the 
mock-bird),  when  it  is  the  season  for  him  to  seek  out  a  mate,  and 
win  his  favorite  by  the  pleasings  of  his  song. 

But  Philip  retired  to  sad,  rather  than  sweet  thoughts  and  fan- 
cies. That  night,  as  he  sat  at  his  evening  meal  beneath  a  tree, 
with  Juan  in  attendance,  he  was  unusually  sad  and  spiritless. 
Juan  was  very  gloomy,  too,  but  made  an  effort  to  revive  the 
spirits  of  his  master.  He  was  curious,  too,  and  he  chose  for  his 
subject  the  beautiful  queen,  who  was  the  topic  of  universal  eulo- 
gium  among  the  Spaniards. 
18 


410  VASCONSELOS. 

"  Think  you,  my  Lord,  that  this  woman  is  so  very  beautiful  ?" 
asked  the  boy. 

"  Woman  1  Forget  you,  sirrah,  that  you  are  speaking  of  a 
great  Princess  among  her  people  !"  was  the  sharp  reply. 

"  Pardon  me,  Sefior,  but  I  meant  not  to  offend ;"  answered 
the  page  with  becoming  humility — "  but — does  my  Lord  think 
her  so  very  beautiful  ?"  he  persisted. 

"  She  is  very  beautiful,  Juan." 

"  That  is  to  say.  for  a  savage  Indian  ?" 

"  She  is  one  of  God's  creatures,  Juan,  and  there  is  no  race 
without  its  beauties." 

"  But  these  beauties  do  not  suit  the  better  tastes  of  a  refined 
people,  Senor.  They  are  too  rude  ;  and  besides,  these  beauties 
are  of  the  form  only  ;  they  lack  the  correspondences  of  education 
and  learning,  and  the  charm  of  accomplishments,  such  as  are 
needful  to  satisfy  the  desires  of  a  Christian  people." 

"  Aye,  boy ;  but  if  the  tastes  lack,  the  virtues  are  not  wanting. 
There  is  heart,  at  least,  in  the  savage  rudeness,  though  it  may 
lack  the  artful  accomplishments  of  the  refined  European.  There 
is  no  treachery  here — no  false  faith — no  base,  degrading  passions, 
nursed,  though  they  are  felt  to  be  vicious,  and  practised  by  those 
who  boast  of  their  higher  virtues  and  their  purer  tastes.  Better 
far  that  there  be  no  accomplishments,  such  as  thou  pratest  of,  if 
they  are  to  be  allied  with  foul  lusts,  practised  in  secret,  to  the 
grievous  peril  of  the  soul,  and  in  despite  of  that  very  education 
of  the  mind,  which  teaches  the  sin,  and  the  shame,  and  the  horror 
of  such  practice.  Better  far,  the  embrace  with  the  rude  and 
simple  woman  of  the  Apalachian,  than  the  whited  sepulchres  of 
Christendom,  where  all  is  smooth  and  shining  without,  and  all 
loathsomeness  and  corruption  within.  I  would  rather  lay  my 
head  upon  the  bosom  of  the  simple  savage,  who  is  innocent  as 
she  knows  nothing,  than  upon  hers,  who  sins  with  all  her  know- 
ledge, and  is  treacherous  to  the  very  faith  which  she  professes 
and  believes.  Ah !  boy — speak  to  me  no  more.  Thou  little 
knowest  into  what  a  gaping  wound  thou  hast  thrust  thy  tortur- 
ing fingers." 

The  page  said  no  more  that  night.  He  stole  away  to  the  soli- 
tude of  another  thicket,  and  bitterly  did  he  weep  the  night  away, 
with  his  face  buried  in  the  long  grasses  of  the  plain. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

"  Deh  I  non  tradir'  mi,  amico." 

AKTASERSK. 

AT  first,  nothing  could  exceed  the  mutual  satisfaction  of  the 
red  men  and  the  Spaniards  in  their  commerce  and  communion. 
The  latter  delighted  their  simple  hosts  with  gifts  of  curiosity  and 
use,  which  were  at  once  new  to  them  and  serviceable.  The  In- 
dians, on  the  other  hand,  stript  their  houses  and  persons,  and  even 
their  graves,  of  the  pearls  which  they  possessed  in  great  quan- 
tities, to  glut  the  desires  of  the  strangers.  To  these  gifts  were 
added  others  which  still  further  aroused  the  cupidity  of  our  ad- 
venturers. Bits  of  gold  and  silver  were  mingled  with  their 
spoils,  prompting  a  thousand  curious  inquiries  as  to  the  region 
whence  they  came.  When  told  of  the  provinces  of  Xualla  and 
Chalaque,  where  the  gold  grew,  De  Soto  resolved  upon  the  ex- 
ploration of  these  regions  also.  But  he  proposed  awhile  to  re- 
main where  he  was ;  satisfied  that  he  was  even  now  in  a  world  of 
great  mineral  treasures.  The  very  appearance  of  the  bluffs  of 
Cofachiqui,  shining  with  isinglass  and  mica,  led  to  dreams  of  sil- 
ver ore,  which,  a  few  bits  found  along  the  shore,  seemed  greatly 
to  encourage ;  and  while  he  remained  in  this  neighborhood,  he 
actually  undertook  the  prodigious  toil  of  cutting  off'  an  elbow  of 
the  river,  and  turning  its  water  for  several  miles,  in  order  to  lay 
bare  the  bed  of  the  stream  for  the  possession  of  the  precious 
treasures  which  were  supposed  to  pave  it.  The  proofs  of  this 
great  labor,  pursued  with  stern  industry  and  a  large  body  of 
workmen,  for  awhile,  are  still  to  be  found  in  the  canal,  shown 
to  this  day  in  these  precincts,  and  which  still  goes  by  the  name  of 
the  Spanish  Cut.  But  the  Adelantado  was  compelled,  though 
reluctant,  to  dismiss  this  pleasant  fancy,  and  abandon  the  painful 
labors  to  which  it  led.  His  silver  proved  to  be  even  less  valu- 
able than  lead.  It  crumbled  away  at  his  touch.  Better  accounts 
reached  him  from  th-3  interior ;  accounts  which  we  now  know  to 
have  been  strictly  true. 

Meanwhile,  the  pleasant  relations  between  the  red  men  and 
the  white  underwent  a  change.  The  Spaniards  soon  began  to 
show  the  simple  natives  the  sterner  aspects  of  their  character. 
Their  eager,  grasping,  despotic  temper,  began  to  manifest  itself, 
as  they  grew  more  confident  in  their  position,  and  more  familiar 

(412) 


412  VASCONSELOS. 

with  the  people.  Violence  took  the  place  of  kindness.  In  wan- 
ton mood,  in  mere  levity,  the  intruders  usurped  the  possessions 
of  the  savages,  defiled  their  women,  and  brutally  assailed  their 
persons  as  their  pride.  Strife  followed,  and  frequent  struggle. 
The  granaries  of  the  red  men  lessened  under  the  wasteful  de- 
mands of  their  visitors,  and  the  beautiful  Princess  herself,  who 
had  been  at  first  so  much  charmed  by  the  pale  warriors, — and 
who  still  craved  to  be  permitted  to  love  and  honor — her  feelings, 
perhaps,  being  much  more  interested  than  her  judgment — even 
she  found  how  difficult  it  was  to  keep  on  terms  with  a  people,  so 
avaricious,  so  tyrannical,  and  selfish.  She  looked  sternly  upon  the 
Spaniards  in  general,  she  looked  coldly  upon  the  Adelantado, 
whom  an  equal  inflexibility  of  will  and  appetite  made  hard- 
favored  and  perpetually  exacting.  It  was  upon  the  noble  inter- 
preter, only,  that  she  cast  always  sweet  and  loving  glances. 
To  him  she  spoke  freely  of  the  respects  in  which  the  Spaniards 
vexed  and  troubled  her. 

"  They  rob  and  wrong  my  people  ;  they  destroy  their  fields  ; 
beat  them  when  they  complain,  and  murder  them  when  they  re- 
sist. It  is  no  longer  easy  to  procure  the  provisions  which  shall 
feed  so  many  mouths.  My  people  grow  very  impatient.  My 
chiefs  counsel  me  to  expel  the  intruders ;  my  warriors  would 
take  up  arms  against  them.  It  remains  only  that  I  give  the  sig- 
nal, and  the  shout  of  war  would  rise  above  the  forests,  and  the 
shaft  of  death  would  fly  from  every  thicket.  But,  I  am  silent, 
noble  Philip,  as  they  calLthee; — silent!  I  feel  for  my  people, 
and  1  chafe  at  the  insolences  of  thine.  Why  am  I  silent  1  It  is 
because  I  would  not  harm  thee :  because  I  would  not  see  thee 
depart,  Philip." 

Philip  beheld  her  with  a  sad  and  drooping  eye.  What  a  history 
of  grief  and  hopelessness  did  her  tender  words  and  looks  recall ! 

"  I  am  but  a  leaf  in  the  wind,  noble  Co§alla ;  a  bubble  upon  the 
stream  ;  a  spent  arrow,  whose  course  through  the  air  is  lost  as 
soon  as  made.  Think  not  of  me.  Persuade  thy  warriors  to 
forbearance.  The  Adelantado  will,  I  think,  depart  soon  from  thy 
provinces.  Better  not  provoke  his  anger.  He  hath  a  power  of 
which  thy  people  know  nothing  :  to  which  they  must  succumb  in 
strife,  or  perish.  He  hath  but  little  reason  to  remain  here  much 
longer,  and  will  most  likely  depart  ere  the  coming  moon !  Till 
then  be  patient — keep  thy  people  in  patience,  and  let  them  bring 
in  good  supplies  of  provisions,  that  we  may  the  sooner  leave  thee." 

"  But  thou  need'st  not  leave  Cofachiqui,  Phil'.p.  Thou  wilt 
stay  here,  and  dwell  in  the  village  of  Cogalla.  It  is  a  Queen 
among  her  people  who  implores  thee  to  stay." 


INSURRECTION.  413 

Before  Philip  could  reply,  his  page  Juan,  with  aspect  gloomy 
and  anxious,  suddenly  entered  the  apartment,  and  after  a  hurried 
obeisance,  said — 

"Sefior,  your  presence  is  needed  without.  There  is  trouble. 
The  Indians  are  arming  and  surrounding  some  of  our  people. 
There  have  been  blows  already  between  them,  and  there  is  dan- 
ger of  insurrection." 

"  I  must  see  to  this  !"  said  Vasconselos.  In  a  few  words  he 
conveyed  to  the  Princess  what  he  had  heard  from  Juan,  and 
hurriedly  took  his  departure.  Juan  was  about  to  follow,  when 
the  Princess  beckoned  him,  and  throwing  a  rich  robe  of  furs  upon 
his  shoulders,  motioned  him  to  accept  it,  in  a  sweet  and  gracious 
manner.  But  the  boy  shook  the  garment  from  his  shoulders,  and 
with  a  single  glance,  of  a  strange  and  almost  savage  sternness,  at 
the  noble  giver,  wheeled  about  and  hastily  followed  his  lord. 

The  Princess  was  confounded  at  this  treatment.  She  had  be- 
stowed the  gift  upon  the  boy  as  she  had  beheld  his  devotion  to 
his  master.  It  was  a  tribute  prompted  entirely  by  her  regard  for 
the  latter.  She  could  not  conjecture  the  meaning  of  the  boy,  or 
the  dark  and  savage  look  which  he  gave  her  ;  and  the  rejection  of 
her  gift,  apart  from  the  manner  in  which  the  thing  was  done,  was 
itself  an  insult.  She  expressed  her  wonder,  in  her  own  language, 
and  hastily  summoned  her  attendants.  These  had  hardly  made 
their  appearance,  when  one  of  her  grave  and  venerable  forest- 
councillors  entered  also.  His  brow  was  full  of  trouble.  He 
hurriedly  confirmed  the  report  which  she  had  just  heard  from 
Vasconselos,  of  the  difficulty  between  her  people  and  the  Spa- 
niards, and,  anxious  about  the  result,  she  hurried  forth  also  with 
the  aged  chief,  in  the  hope,  by  her  presence,  to  quiet  the  aroused 
passions  of  her  subjects. 

When  Philip  de  Vasconselos  appeared  upon  the  scene  of  com- 
motion, the  conflict  seemed  inevitable.  The  red  men  were  arm- 
ing every  where,  and  gathering  to  the  conflict.  They  had  been 
goaded  beyond  their  endurance,  by  the  brutalities  of  some  of  tho 
Spanish  rabble,  had  resented  with  blows  an  unprovoked  injury  ; 
and,  unwillingly  restrained  so  long,  by  the  authority  of  their 
queen,  it  was  now  apparent  that  the  outbreak  would  be  propor- 
tionately extreme,  from  the  enforced  authority  which  had  hith- 
erto kept  in  subjection  their  usually  untameable  passions.  The 
warriors  had  submitted  to  the  presence  and  the  aggressions  of 
the  Spaniards,  against  their  habitual  practice,  and  against  their 
nature.  Fierce,  proud,  always  prepared  for,  and  fond  of,  war, — • 
the  conquerors  of  all  the  surrounding  tribes, — how  should  they 
submit  to  the  insolence  of  this  handful  of  strangers,  whom  it 


414  VASCONSELOS. 

seemed  so  easy  to  destroy  ?  The  moment  had  arrived,  at  last, 
for  the  assertion  of  their  strength  and  independence  ! 

The  moment  was  inauspicious  for  De  Soto.  One  half  of  his 
forces  had  been  despatched  in  different  bodies,  and  directions,  in 
the  exploration  of  the  country.  Nuno  de  Tobar  was  probably 
fifty  miles  off,  with  a  select  body  of  forty  horses,  on  the  route  to 
Achalaque.  Juan  de  Anasco,  with  a  similar  force,  was  away  on 
another  route.  So  was  Gonzalo  Sylvestre ;  so  was  Andres  de 
Vasconselos,  with  his  Portuguese,  and  other  knights.  The  re- 
mains of  the  army,  with  DeSoto,  at  the  moment  of  commotion, 
were  scattered  along  the  river  banks,  or  in  the  forests,  fishing  or 
fowling.  Unless  he  could  quell  the  commotion  without  the  ex- 
treme of  struggle,  without  absolute  violence,  he  was  in  danger  of 
being  utterly  destroyed.  The  princess  of  Cofachiqui  could  bring 
several  thousand  warriors  into  the  field.  It  was  under  these  cir- 
cumstances that  the  Adelantado  hurried  forth,  as  Philip  de  Vas- 
conselos had  done,  in  order  to  interpose  his  person  and  authority 
for  the  prevention  of  the  strife.  It  was  here  that  he  showed  the 
resources  of  a  good  head  and  a  long  experience.  To  the  sur- 
prise equally  of  his  own  soldiers  and  the  red  men,  he  seized  a 
cudgel  and  began  to  belabor  the  Spaniards,  seconded  in  the  ope- 
ration most  heartily  by  Philip,  who  had  reached  the  scene  in 
season  for  this  proper,  if  not  pleasant  exercise.  The  princess 
appeared  at  this  juncture,  and  clapped  her  hands  with  a  sort  of 
girlish  delight,  which  contributed  to  the  success  of  De  Soto's 
policy.  The  chiefs  and  sages  went  amongst  the'r  warriors  with 
words  of  counsel ;  and  the  outbreak  was  quelled  almost  as  soon 
as  it  had  taken  place.  The  red  men  retired  to  their  woods, 
hardly  satisfied,  but  subdued,  they  knew  not  well  in  what  man- 
ner. The  Adelantado  escorted  the  princess  to  her  dwelling,  and 
partook  of  a  feast  which  she  had  prepared.  For  the  moment 
harmony  seemed  restored.  But  it  was  a  hollow  amnesty.  There 
were  wounds  that  rankled  on  both  sides,  and  refused  to  be  healed. 
Pride  was  at  work  equally  in  the  hearts  of  the  Spaniards  and 
red  men,  and  passions,  of  even  a  worse  order,  which  the  artifices 
of  both  only  labored  to  conceal — not  overcome. 

That  night,  the  Adelantado  called  a  council  of  his  chief  officers 
at  his  quarters.  Philip  de  Vasconselos  was  present  witli  the 
rest. 

"  1  have  summoned  you  ,  Sefiores,"  said  De  Soto,  "  that  we 
may  confer  together  as  to  the  policy  before  us.  You  have  seen 
to-day  what  is  the  temper  of  these  savages.  For  some  days  past 
we  have  witnessed  a  rising  spirit  of  insolence  among  them.  They 
bring  in  their  maize  and  beans  very  reluctantly.  With  all  OUT 


CHIEFS   IN  COUNCIL.  415 

exertions,  we  scarcely  get  an  adequate  supply,  and  the  return  of 
the  several  parties,  we  have  sent  out,  will  find  too  many  mouths 
for  our  granaries.  The  princess,  herself,  no  longer  looks  on  us 
with  friendly  eyes.  She  treats  us  coldly  ;  she  denies  herself, 
sometimes,  when  I  seek  to  see  her;  and  there  can  be  no  question 
that  she  looks  upon  our  continued  presence  with  dislike.  Speak 
forth,  Seftores;  declare  your  opinions  freely,  and  say  what  is  left 
to  us  in  this  condition  of  our  affairs." 

There  were  many  speakers,  to  all  of  whom  the  remarks  of  the  Ad- 
elantado  furnished  the  key-note.  All  were  agreed  that  the  queen 
and  her  subjects  were  changed  in  temper  towards  them ;  that  it 
was  evident  they  were  regarded  no  longer  as  grateful  guests,  but 
as  burdensome  and  offensive  intruders.  But  no  one  suggested 
the  course  of  action.  They  all  well  knew  that,  while  De  Soto 
listened  patiently  to  all,  he  followed  no  counsel  but  his  own,  or 
that  to  which  he  fully  inclined  himself.  Vasconselos  alone  was 
silent. 

"  We  would  hear  from  Don  Philip,"  said  De  Soto,  with  a  smile 
which  had  in  it  something  of  a  sneer.  Philip  quietly  and 
promptly  answered. 

"  There  is  no  question  but  it  is  true  that  these  people  are  tired 
of  us.  We  have  worn  out  their  patience.  We  have  consumed 
their  provisions,  occupied  their  houses,  controlled  and  commanded 
their  labor,  enjoyed  their  hospitality  to  the  full  extent  of  their  re- 
sources ;  and  in  return,  have  beaten  and  despoiled  their  men  and 
women,  and  shown  ourselves  very  ungrateful  for  all  that  they 
have  done  with  us.  For  my  part,  I  only  wonder  that  they  have 
tolerated  us  so  long.  The  admirable  drubbing  which  your  Ex- 
cellency administered  this  day  to  some  of  the  runagates  who  have 
turned  the  hearts  of  this  simple  people  against  us,  was  quite  as 
much  due  to  justice  as  to  good  policy.  It  might  have  been  well  to 
have  administered  a  little  more  of  it,  and  to  a  score  or  two  of 
other  offenders." 

"  Well,  but  admitting  the  truth  of  all  this,  Sefior  Don  Philip," 
responded  De  Soto.  rather  impatiently, — "  the  question  is,  what 
are  we  to  do, — how  repair  the  evil — how  put  ourselves  in  secu- 
rity against  such  mischance  as  had  so  nearly  befallen  us  to- 
day ?" 

"  The  question  is  an  embarrassing  one,  your  Excellency, 
and,  perhaps,  were  better  addressed  to  some  of  your  older  and 
closer  councillors.  The  solution  of  it  will  depend  upon  your  ob- 
jects. Why  should  we  linger  here  ?  The  silver  which  we  hoped 
to  gather  from  these  banks  of  earth  turns  out  a  delusion.  The 
gold,  as  we  learn  on  every  hand,  is  to  be  found  many  leagues 


416  VASCOXSELOS. 

above,  and  in  the  region  of  mighty  mountains.  You  have  aban- 
doned the  idea  of  changing  the  bed  of  the  stream,  since  there  is 
no  probability  that  it  will  afford  a  treasure  which  the  banks  on  its 
sides  do  not  possess.  Wherefore,  then,  remain  in  a  region  which 
promises  nothing,  and  where  we  have  evidently  exhausted  the 
hospitality,  with  the  provisions  of  its  people  1  Our  delay  can  give 
us  neither  food,  nor  profit,  nor  security." 

"  True  again,  but  still  not  satisfactory.  There  is  a  subject  be- 
sides  which  we  need  to  consider.  If  we  depart  from  these  people 
thus,  and  while  they  keep  their  present  mood,  we  lose  credit 
among  them.  They  will  feel  that  they  have  had  a  sort  of  tri- 
umph. It  will  make  them  insolent.  Their  runners  will  precede 
us  where  we  go;  they  will  disparage  our  arms  and  valor;  they 
will  lose  us  that  authority  which  makes  our  progress  go  without 
question;  and  we  shall  have  to  fight  every  step  of  our  way." 

"  We  have  had  to  do  this  already  in  most  cases.  In  the 
country  of  the  savage  this  can  scarce  be  otherwise.  We  can 
look  only  to  our  arms  and  courage  to  carry  us  through.  But 
where  this  needs  not — where  we  are  received  in  kindness — it  is 
scarcely  wise  to  force  hatred  upon  the  people  that  welcome  us  at 
first  with  love.  This  is  what  we  have  been  doing.  We  have 
manacled,  maimed,  and  even  burned  these  people,  for  small  of- 
fences, which,  in  their  ignorance,  they  have  committed.  Yet  they 
have  borne  with  all,  through  the  kindness  of  their  Queen.  They 
cannot  endure  starvation.  We  have  brought  them  to  this.  Let 
us  leave  them  in  season,  before  we  have  made  them  desperate ; 
and  carry  their  friendly  wishes  with  us,  if  we  can  carry  nothing 
better.  They  have  yielded  to  us  all  their  treasures  of  gold  and 
pearls." 

"  Ay,  but  their  favor  is  already  lost.  They  will  send  us  for- 
ward with  no  good  wishes.  They  will  rather  send  before  us 
tidings  of  evil  which  shall  prejudice  our  progress  wherever  we 
appear.  The  Princess  Co<jalla  has  grown  haughty  and  indifferent, 
Senor  Don  Philip,  to  all  among  us,  but  yourself." 

Philip  regarded  the  savage  smile  upon  the  countenance  of  the 
Adelantado,  with  a  quiet,  cold,  immovable  look.  He  did  not 
attempt  to  answer.  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro  now  took  up  the 
parole. 

*'  I  suspect  that  few  will  doubt  the  necessity  of  our  leaving 
this  place,  your  Excellency;  and  just  as  few  will  be  prepared  to 
deny  the  danger  of  which  your  Excellency  speaks,  from  the  ma- 
licious and  unfriendly  reports  of  these  people.  We  have  had 
sufficient  proofs  of  their  growing  hostility.  The  mother  of  this 
Princess  keeps  aloof  from  us,  and  has  eluded  pursuit  and  search. 


THE  CONQUEROR'S  POLICY.  417 

The  young  Indian  Chief  whom  we  sent  to  her  with  a  message, 
slew  himself  rather  than  approach  her  after  he  had  been  forbid- 
den ;  and  I  am  sure  that  we  should  have  lost  the  favor  of  the 
Princess  here,  but  for  the  special  regard  which  possesses  her  soul, 
in  behalf  of  one  of  us.  How  long  this  will  secure  us  is  a  problem 
which  we  shall  soon  be  able  to  solve,  if  it  be  true  that  the  natives 
are  out  of  provisions.  Now,  we  are  all  agreed  to  depart  from  a 
region  in  which  we  shall  find  famine  only  instead  of  gold  ;  and 
we  are  agreed  also,  that  we  may  have  to  fight  our  way  at  every 
step,  and  get  our  provisions  only  at  the  end  of  our  weapons. 
Well,  with  your  Excellency's  leave,  we  are  in  precisely  the  same 
strait  with  those  great  men,  Hernan  Cortez  and  Francis  Pizamx 
and  I  see  not  that  we  can  do  better  than  adopt  their  policy." 

"  What  policy  ?"  quoth  the  Adelantado. 

"  That  of  seizing  upon  the  sovereign  of  the  country,  and  making 
her  a  hostage  for  the  good  behavior  of  her  people.  This  Prin- 
cess of  Cofachiqui  is  in  your  power.  Her  people  hold  her  in  an 
esteem  little  short  of  reverence.  Seize  her,  keep  her  in  close 
custody,  under  watchful  guardianship,  and  you  secure  the  good 
conduct  of  her  people.  You  are  required'  now  to  traverse  hun- 
dreds of  miles  over  which  she  possesses  acknowledged  sway  :  as 
you  pass  west,  if  you  need  to  do  so,  you  are  told  that  she  is 
closely  allied  to  the  great  powers  of  the  Apalachian,  the  Alaba- 
mous,  the  Mechachebe !  What  follows?  The  people,  in  all  these 
places,  obey  her  decrees,  bring  provisions,  bear  burdens,  submit 
without  blows.  The  policy  of  Cortez  and  Pizarro  must  be  that 
of  Hernan  de  Soto,  if  he  hopes  for  like  success  with  these  heathen 
savages.  It  is  the  only  policy  for  safety." 

"  And  I  deem  it  a  base  and  horrid  policy,  Seflor !"  cried  Vas- 
conselos,  rising,  and  speaking  with  all  the  warmth  of  a  noble 
and  ingenuous  soul,  shocked  at  the  cold  cruelty  and  baseness  of 
the  counsel  given.  "  O  !  Don  Hernan  de  Soto,  beware  how  you 
stain  an  honorable  fame,  by  the  adoption  of  a  policy  so  shame- 
ful, so  shocking,  so  dreadfully  ungrateful.  This  young  Princess 
has  received  you  with  highest  honors,  has  treated  you  with  unva- 
rying kindness,  has  yielded  from  her  stores  all  that  she  possesses. 
As  a  Christian  gentleman,  and  loyal  cavalier,  you  cannot  follow 
counsels  which  shall  violate  every  trusted  virtue,  every  security 
of  feeling  and  of  honor." 

The  brow  of  De  Soto  darkened  terribly. 

"  You  employ  strong  language,  Don  Philip  de  Vasconselos ; 
but  you  may  have  special  reasons  for  doing  so.      You,  at  least, 
would  seem  to  owe  special  favors  to  this  dusky  Princess." 
" 


418  VASCONSELOS. 

The  pale  cheeks  of  Philip  reddened,  but  he  was  silent.  The 
Adelantado  proceeded : 

"  But  our  obligations  are  general  only,  and  shared  with  all  the 
chiefs  of  my  army.  You  hear  how  they  express  themselves,  and 
what  they  counsel.  In  great  necessities,  nice  scruples  are  vicious 
impediments,  and  we  may  not  apply  to  great  embarrassments,  the 
principles  we  submit  to  when  the  currents  of  life  flow  smoothly 
on  as  we  would  have  them,  under  ordinary  laws.  I  hold  the 
counsel  of  Don  Balthazar  to  be  the  only  means  of  escape  and 
progress  in  this  our  emergency.  It  is  our  necessity,  which  we 
cannot  escape." 

"  O  !  say  not  so,  your  Excellency "  began  Philip  de  Vas- 

conselos,  but  the  truncheon  of  the  Adelantado  came  down  heavily 
upon  the  table, — and  he  thundered  out — 

"  We  have  decided,  gentlemen — we  -are  resolved — the  council 
is  dissolved.  We  shall  see  to  these  things  with  early  morning. 
Be  you  each  prepared,  in  armor,  to  second  all  my  orders." 

The  council  dispersed,  each  to  his  own  quarters,  all  leaving  the 
Adelantado,  except  Don  Balthazar,  who  had  other  matters  to 
insinuate  when  he  did  not  counsel.  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  grieved 
to  the  heart,  retired  to  his  lowly  lodgings,  where  he  sat  down  to 
his  silent  supper,  of  which  he  scarcely  ate,  attended  by  Juan  in 
silence. 

"  O  !  boy,  boy  !"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly — "  thou  little  know- 
est,  boy,"  he  proceeded — "  but  if  the  heart  of  woman  be  incu- 
rably false,  that  of  man  is  terribly  base  !  If  her  heart  be  weak 
as  water,  his  is  more  hard  and  unfeeling  than  the  pitiless  rock. 
I  am  sick,  Juan,  very  sick  of  all  things  that  live  !" 

And  the  supper  was  pushed  away  ;  and  the  knight  threw  him- 
self on  his  couch  of  reeds  and  brush,  under  the  roof  of  his  simple 
Indian  lodge  which  had  given  him  shelter,  and  he  felt  to  what  a 
base  use  his  ruler  had  put  all  the  benefits  of  the  simple  and  con- 
fiding red  men,  and  their  sweet  and  lovely  sovereign.  And  Juan 
lay  between  two  rustic  pillars,  in  the  shade,  half  watching  the 
words  of  his  master  all  the  while.  And  he  drowsed  while  watch- 
ing :  but  Philip  slept  not.  He  could  not  sleep  because  of  too 
much  thought,  and  long  after  midnight  he  arose,  and  he  muttered 
to  himself — 

"  It  shall  not  be  !     I  will  prevent  this  dreadful  treachery  !" 

And  he  stole  forth  even  as  he  spoke,  carrying  his  sword  be- 
neath his  arm,  and  he  made  his  way,  amidst  the  dim  woods, 
guided  only  by  the  starlight,  and  certain  scattered  fires  of  the 
village,  until  he  was  lost  in  the  thickets  that  lay  between  the 


PHILIP'S  MAGNANIMITY.  419 

Spanish  encampment  and  the  grounds  which  environed  the 
abode  of  the  Princess.  He  knew  not  that  the  only  half-sleeping 
Juan,  aroused  by  his  exclamation,  had  started  to  his  feet,  and 
caught  up  a  weapon  also,  and  was  following  stealthily  upon  his 
footsteps. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

"  E  chi  poteva, 
Mio  ben,  senza  vedir-ti 
La  patria  abbandonnar  f " 

ARTASERSB 

MEANWHILE,  the  Adelantado  and  his  prime  minister,  Don 
Balthazar  de  Alvaro,  sate  late  at  their  private  councils,  after  the 
rest  of  the  noble  Knights  and  Captains  had  retired.  They  had 
much  to  discuss  and  determine  which  was  not  proper  to  be  sub- 
mitted to  the  common  ear.  But  a  portion  only  of  this  confe- 
rence properly  concerns  our  drama.  It  was  at  the  close  of  their 
discourse  that  De  Soto  gave  it  in  charge  to  Don  Balthazar,  to 
arrest  the  Princess  and  put  her  under  safeguard. 

"  There  need  be  no  violence,  Sefior  Balthazar,  if  your  proceed 
ings  are  prompt  and  secret.  All  outward  forms  of  respect  must 
be  maintained.  We  must  only  see  that  she  does  not  escape. 
See  to  it  by  sunrise." 

"  Better  an  hour  or  two  before,"  was  the  answer  of  the  Don. 
"  The  Indians  may  be  put  on  the  alert  by  sunrise." 

"  What !  you  do  not  suspect  Don  Philip  ]" 

"  He  is  a  favorite  with  the  Princess." 

"  But  I  should  think  her  no  great  favorite  with  him.  He  seeras 
to  treat  her  with  great  reserve,  if  not  coldness." 

"  Reserve  is  apt  to  be  only  a  prudent  masking  of  the  pas- 
sions." 

"  But  would  he  dare  to  play  us  false !" 

"Ah  !  this  would  scarcely  be  considered  a  treachery;  or  only 
such  as  were  becoming  in  a  good  knight.  We  can,  at  aty  events, 
better  guard  against  than  punish  such  a  treachery." 

"  Ay,  by  the  holy  cross,  but  I  should  punish  such  a  treachery, 
were  the  offender  the  best  knight  in  Christendom." 

"  Verily,  and  I  should  hark  on,  and  say  well  done,  your  Ex- 
cellency ;  but  still  I  repeat,  better  in  this  case  prevent,  than  have 
to  punish  such  treachery.  In  brief,  the  Princess  must  not  be 
allowed  to  escape.  Were  she  to  do  so,  we  should  fare  badly  in 
our  future  progress  through  her  dominions.  With  your  Excel- 
lency's leave,  1  will  make  the  arrest  before  the  dawn  of  another 
day." 

"  It  is  as  you  please.     You  are  no  doubt  right  in  the  precau- 

(420) 


THE   ABODE   OF   COCALLA.  421 

tion ;  though,  let  me  find  this  Knight  of  Portugal  playing  me 
false,  and "  . 

The  threat  was  unspoken,  or  was  sufficiently  expressed  in  the 
angry  gesture,  and  the  heavy  stroke  with  which,  with  clenched 
fist,  he  smote  the  rude  table  at  which  the  parties  were  seated. 
In  a  little  while  after  this,  Don  Balthazar  took  his  leave. 

He  proceeded  almost  instantly  to  collept  a  select  body  of  his 
followers,  all  armed,  for  the  capture  of  the  Princess  Co^alla. 
This  labor  occupied  some  time.  He  had  to  move  with  all  pre- 
cautions, rout  up  soldiers  who  were  sleeping,  and  hunt  up  others 
who  were  scattered  ;  and  this  brought  him  to  a  tolerably  late  hour 
in  the  night.  By  that  time  Philip  de  Vasconselos  had  already 
proceeded  on  his  generous  mission,  of  arousing  the  Princess  to 
the  necessity  of  flight,  and  ere  Don  Balthazar  had  set  his  little 
squad  in  motion :  but  the  latter  was  not  delayed  much  longer. 
Still,  the  Portuguese  Knight  is  in  season  for  his  object,  if  there 
should  occur  no  embarrassments. 

It  was  no  small  one,  however,  that  of  finding  access  to  the 
Princess.  She  occupied  a  centre  mansion,  rude  enough  for  roy- 
alty, so  far  as  we  refer  to  the  agencies  of  art,  but  a  most  royal 
abode  if  we  look  only  to  the  natural  accessories.  That  great 
home  of  forest  oaks,  and  hickories,  and  walnuts,  towering  masses 
of  wood  and  shrubbery — a  mighty  colonnade  of  gigantic  forms, 
conducting  through  numerous  airy  avenues  to  the  lowly  mansion 
of  logs,  surrounded  by  a  shady  roof  of  thatched  poles, — an  am- 
ple verandah  of  green,  surrounding  the  habitation,  which  nestled 
in  the  great  shelter  of  the  ancient  forest — was  an  abode  for  an 
Emperor.  In  this  verandah  slept  a  score  or  more  of  warriors 
always  ready,  armed  with  feathered  shaft,  and  flint-headed  spear, 
and  obsidian  bludgeon,  stone  tomahawk  and  knife  of  flint.  No 
Emperor  ever  possessed  subjects  more  faithful  and  devoted.  The 
space  of  forest  surrounding  the  abode  of  the  Princess  was  filled 
up  with  scattered  parties  of  other  warriors,  who  slept  beneath 
the  trees  when  the  weather  was  fair,  and  who  kept  watch  from 
hidden  huts,  when  the  storm  descended.  They  were  as  vigilant 
as  faithful. 

Hardly  had  Philip  de  Vasconselos  entered  the  tabooed  pre- 
cincts, when  a  dozen  spears  were  at  his  breast. 

"  Lead  me  to  your  queen,"  he  said  in  calm,  but  commanding 
accents — •"  she  is  in  danger.  I  must  see  her." 

A  brief  and  rapid  consultation  ensued  among  the  forest  watch- 
ers. The  result  was  favorable  to  the  wishes  of  the  knight,  sim- 
ply as  all  knew  him  to  be  the  favorite  of  Co§alla.  He  was 
scarcely  a  less  favorite  among  her  people.  He  was  conducted 


422  VASCONSELOS. 

silently  through  the  green  glades,  and  amidst  the  dark  avenues  of 
thicket ;  the  boy  Jua,n  stealthily  and  closely  following,  unnoticed 
by  Philip,  and  permitted  by  the  red  men,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
as  he  was  the  attendant  of  the  master.  When  they  reached  the 
lodge,  a  conch,  which  hung  from  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  veran- 
dah, was  sounded  by  one  of  the  watchers  at  the  porch.  A  door 
opened,  and  a  whispered  conversation  ensued  between  the  guard 
and  some  one  within.  A  brief  space,  and  Philip  was  admitted 
to  an  antechamber,  a  great  hall,  indeed,  at  one  side  of  which  stood 
a  maiden  with  a  blazing  torch.  Juan  remained  in  waiting  with- 
out the  verandah,  anxious  to  press  forward,  and  trembling  with 
anxiety,  yet  dreading  what  he  should  behold.  But,  for  awhile, 
his  courage  failed  him,  leaving  his  anxiety  unrepressed. 

But  a  few  moments  had  elapsed,  after  Philip's  entrance  into 
the  hall,  when  the  princess  made  her  appearance.  She  was  clad 
in  simple  white  cotton  garments,  hastily  caught  up.  It  needed 
but  little  time  or  effort  to  adjust  the  costume  of  the  native  prin- 
cess. She  was  followed  by  a  group  of  damsels,  and  one  or  two 
matrons.  In  a  few  moments  after,  several  old  men  made  their 
appearance  from  contiguous  dormitories. 

There  was  a  joyous  eagerness  in  the  face  of  the  bright-eyed 
Cogalla,  as  she  looked  upon  the  knight. 

"  Philip  !"  She  had  learned  to  call  his  name  very  prettily — 
"  Philip  !"  and  the  rest  she  spoke  in  her  own  language,  taking  his 
hand  frankly  as  she  spoke. 

"  What  would  the  voice  of  the  Spaniard  with  Cocalla  ?  It  is 
not  the  hour  of  council.  The  bird  that  sings  by  day,  sleeps  in 
the  darkness.  The  warrior  sleeps,  with  the  spear  beneath  his 
arm.  Why  comes  Philip  to  me  now  1  Would  he  make  his 
home  with  the  red  warriors  of  the  forest  ?  Philip  shall  be  a 
chief  for  Cozalla." 

"  It  is  not  for  that  I  come,  noble  Co£alla.  But  there  is  danger 
for  the  princess.  My  people  have  said  Cocalla  must  be  ours ! 
She  must  march  with  our  army  to  the  great  mountains.  She 
must  be  the  hostage  for  her  people.  She  must  follow  the  path 
as  we  mark  it  out  for  her  footsteps.  Let  Co§alla  fly  to  the  great 
thickets  and  escape  from  captivity." 

"  Does  the  Spanish  chief  say  this  of  the  Queen  of  Cofachiqui  ?" 
was  the  indignant  answer. 

"  The  Spanish  chiefs  have  so  spoken !" 

"  What !  They  see  not  my  warriors  1  They  know  not  their  valoi , 
their  skill,  their  numbers,  and  the  fatal  weapons  which  they  carry." 

"  Neither  numbers  nor  weapons  will  avail  against  the  arms  of 
the  Spaniards." 


COUNSELS   OF  FLIGHT.  423 

"  Ha !  say'st  thou  !  Th'ou  shalt  see."  And  she  whispered  to 
her  attendants,  one  of  whom  disappeared. 

"  The  princess  must  fly  to  the  deep  forests,"  continued  Vas- 
conselos. "There  alone  can  she  be  safe  from  our  people." 

"  Fly !  and  from  my  home, — while  my  warriors  are  around 
me?  Never!  never! — And  yet — "  speaking  quickly — "Will 
Philip  go  with  me  to  my  lodge  in  the  great  forests?  Will  he 
become  a  warrior  of  Cofachiqui  ?  Say,  Philip, — wilt  thou  go 
with  me,  and  find  a  lodge  among  my  people — and  become  a 
chief — the  great  chief — the  '  we//-beloved  of  Cofachiqui  ?'  And 
she  caught  his  hand  eagerly. 

"  Alas  !"  he  said,  "  I  cannot,  beautiful  Co9alla — my  lot  is  cast 
among  the  Spaniards." 

"  Then  will  I  meet  them  here.  I  will  gather  my  warriors. 
They  shall  fight  these  Spaniards — they  shall  fall  upon  them,  and 
slay  them  all — all  but  thee,  Philip.  Thou  shalt  be  a  great  chief 
of  Cofachiqui." 

A  group  of  old  men  entered  at  this  moment,  and  were  ap 
prised  of  what  Vasconselos  had  reported.  They  received  the  in- 
formation gravely.  They  heard  their  princess  as  she  inveighed 
loudly  against  the  insolent  purpose  of  the  Spaniards.  She  bade 
them  gather  the  warriors  together,  and  meet  their  enemy.  She 

was  resolved  not  to  fly,  unless and  she  turned  again  to  the 

knight — 

"  Will  not  Philip  go  with  Co<jalla  to  the  great  forests  of  her 
people,  and  be  a  chief  of  Cofachiqui  ?" 

He  shook  his  head  mournfully.  The  old  chiefs  interfered. 
Philip  understood  all  that  they  spoke,  though  in  low  tones,  to 
their  queen.  They,  too,  exhorted  her  to  take  the  counsel  of  Vas- 
conselos, and  seek  safety  in  flight.  At  the  moment,  they  were 
unprepared  for  conflict.  Their  warriors  about  the  village  were 
few  in  number,  hardly  more  than  necessary  for  a  body-guard  of 
honor  for  their  sovereign.  It  required  time  to  call  in  the  warri- 
ors, and  to  prepare  for  such  enemies  as  those  with  whom  they 
had  to  deal,  and  the  terrible  resources  of  which  were  already,  in 
part,  known  to  the  chiefs.  But  the  princess  grew  unreason 
able ;  still  recurring,  at  the  close  of  her  speech,  to  the  one  bur- 
den, in  the  appeal  to  Philip — "  to  find  a  lodge  among,  and  be  a 
chief  over  her  people — the  chief!"  The  old  warriors  looked 
grave.  They  renewed  their  counsels  and  expostulations.  They 
were  seconded  by  the  earnest  entreaties  of  Vasconselos.  She 
said  to  him  reproachfully — 

"Does  Philip  bid  me  go  from   him  where  I  can  see  him  no 


424  VASCONSELOS. 

more  1  Does  Philip  say  to  Cocalla — let  the  forests  grow  be- 
twe'en  us,  so  that  our  eyes  shall  never  meet  again  ?  Ah  !  Philip !" 
and  she  laid  her  hand,  as  if  with  pain,  upon  her  heart.  The 
knight  felt  very  wretched  at  the  wretchedness  he  was  compelled 
to  inflict,  and  a  vague  but  beguiling  thought  passed  through  his 
fancy  for  an  instant,  with  the  rapidity  of  an  arrow  of  light. 

"  And  why  should  I  not  depart  with  this  true-hearted  and  in- 
nocent princess  ? — She  is  young  and  beautiful,  and  powerful,  and 
more  than  all,  pure  of  thought  and  feeling.  Why  should  1  fol- 
low in  the  steps  of  those  who  hate,  when  I  am  persuaded  by 
those  who  love "?" 

But  he  dismissed  the  seductive  argument  with  the  resolute  ex- 
ertion of  his  will.  The  very  thought  of  love,  and  of  another  wo- 
man, while  his  heart  was  still  so  sore  with  the  most  humiliating 
experience  of  the  sex,  was  a  revolting  thought.  He  hastily  ex- 
pelled it  from  his  mind. 

"  Heed  not  me,"  he  said,  "noble  Princess  : — I  am  but  an  in- 
sect in  thy  path.  I  am  nothing." 

"Thou  art  every  thing,  Philip,  to  Cogalla.  My  people  will 
honor  thee  for  my  sake,  and  thou  shalt  be  a  chief  among  them. 
And  thou  shalt  dwell  in  a  lodge  with  Co$alla,  and  there  shall  be 
no  Spaniards  in  the  great  forests  where  we  go.  Thou  shalt  be 
a  chief  of  my  people,  Philip, — thou  shalt  be  the  only  chief  for 
CoQalla." 

And  with  these  words,  in  the  eager  impulse  of  a  passion  which 
was  no  less  pure  than  warm, — the  passion  of  a  nature  wholly  un- 
sophisticated, no  longer  able  to  restrain  her  feelings,  she  threw 
her  arms  around  the  neck  of  Vasconselos,  and  laid  her  head  upon 
his  breast.  Her  long,  dark  tresses  fell  like  a  shower  of  starry 
night  over  his  shoulders. 

At  that  moment,  and  before  the  knight  could  recover  himself, 
he  felt  his  arm  plucked  from  behind,  and  the  voice  of  Juan 
sounded  huskily  in  his  ears. 

"  See  you  not,  Senor,  that  unless  you  tear  yourself  away  from 
her,  she  will  not  depart  ?  She  will  be  captured,  unless  you  leave 
her  at  once  !  Already  Don  Balthazar  is  gathering  his  troop  to 
surround  the  village  of  the  princess.  Fly  from  her  in  season,  or 
she  is  surely  taken.  These  moments  are  fatally  lost." 

Vasconselos  heard,  and  tenderly  but  firmly  he  unwound  the 
arms  of  the  princess  from  about  his  neck.  At  this  act,  silently 
performed,  she  turned,  with  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  and 
threw  herself  on  the  bosom  of  one  of  the  matrons,  while  her 
sobs  sounded  distinctly  through  the  apartment. 


JUAN  IS   REBUKED.  425 

"  Now — now !"  cried  Juan,  in  quick,  eager  accents,  as  Philip 
lingered — ''  Now  is  the  moment,  Sefior.  She  will  fly  when  you 
are  gone  from  sight." 

"  You  are  right,  boy,  right !  "  answered  the  knight.  The  hand 
of  Juan  eagerly  grasped  that  of  his  superior,  and  led  him  away 
from  the  apartment  and  into  the  woods,  without  a  moment's  de- 
lay. They  were  within  a  few  paces  of  the  lodging  of  Vasconse- 
los,  when  they  heard  a  slight  blast  of  a  trumpet  in  the  thicket 
between  them  and  the  abode  of  the  Princess. 

"  It  is  the  signal  of  Don  Balthazar,"  said  Juan  hurriedly.  "  We 
are  safe  ;"  and  he  drew  the  knight  into  the  lodge. 

"  But  Coc.alla?"  said  Philip. 

"  She  has  had  time  enough  for  escape  if  she  willed  it ;  but  me- 
thinks  she  would  rather  be  a  captive  were  Don  Philip  the  jailer, 
than  be  the  free  Princess  of  all  these  forests." 

There  was  something  of  bitterness  in  the  accents  of  the  boy. 
Philip  noted  it,  but  his  mind  was  too  full  of  anxiety,  in  respect 
to  the  escape  of  Co§alla,  to  dwell  upon  minor  matters. 

"  Now  may  the  Saints  forbid !"  he  ejaculated. 

"This  princess  seems  very  precious  to  the  Sefior !"  quoth 
Juan,  moodily. 

"  As  nobility,  and  generosity  of  soul,  and  true  virtue  in  a  wo- 
man, should  ever  be  to  every  noble  knight !"  responded  Philip, 
somewhat  sternly  ;  and  Juan  shrunk  away,  as  if  an  arrow  had 
pierced  him  suddenly  in  the  breast ;  and  Vasconselos  heard  no 
more  words  from  him  that  night.  The  boy  had  gone  aside  to 
bury  his  face  in  the  leaves  of  his  couch,  and  to  weep  in  secret,  as 
was  his  nightly  custom  and  necessity. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 


'  Va  !  se  hai  cara  !a  vita.' 


THE  effort  of  Don  Philip  had  been  made  in  vain.  The  Priri 
cess  Cocalla  gave  herself  up  to  a  passion  of  grief,  that  resisted 
argument  and  entreaty.  She  became  fully  conscious  of  her 
danger  (of  which  even  the  assurance  of  Vasconselos  had  failed 
to  possess  her  mind) — of  the  danger  which  awaited  her,  only 
when  it  was  too  late.  It  was  only  when  the  shrill  blast  of  the 
Spanish  trumpet,  speaking  in  signal  to  the  co-operating  squad, 
and  the  crash  of  conflicting  weapons,  had  struck  upon  her  senses, 
that  she  consented  to  make  the  attempt  to  escape.  But,  by  this 
time,  the  building  was  entirely  surrounded,  and  she  was  seized 
by  a  group  of  common  soldiers,  as  she  strove  to  steal  away  from 
the  rear  during  the  struggle  between  her  warriors  and  the  assail- 
ants. Her  people  fought  desperately,  even  the  old  chiefs  and 
counsellors,  but  only  to  be  butchered.  The  dawn  saw  her  vil- 
lage smoking  with  blood,  and  herself  a  captive. 

The  Princess  was  from  this  moment  kept  under  close  restraint, 
well  watched  and  guarded,  but  treated  with  forbearance,  if  not 
with  kindness.  She  was  allowed  a  litter  to  be  borne  upon  the 
shoulders  of  her  own  people,  when  she  was  indisposed  to  walk. 
The  Adelantado,  for  awhile,  paid  her  a  morning  visit,  as  Cortez 
had  done  to  Montezurna,  in  which  he  maintained  all  the  most 
deferential  externals.  She  did  not  reproach,  nor  entreat ;  but 
from  the  moment  when  she  became  a  captive,  she  habited  her- 
selfin  the  stern  reserve  of  character  so  peculiar  to  the  red  men 
of  America,  and  haughtily  refused  communion  with  her  treach- 
erous and  ungrateful  guest.  But  her  captivity  disarmed  her 
people.  They  dared  not  rebel  against  the  authority  whose  sim- 
ple decree  might  destroy  the  head  of  the  nation.  They  submit- 
ted every  where — submitted  as  Tamenes,  or  porters,  to  bear  the 
luggage  of  the  army,  and  brought  in  provisions  throughout  the 
country,  wherever  the  Spaniards  came  or  sent. 

The  army  was  set  in  motion  soon  after  the  arrest  of  the  Princess, 
and  the  young  and  noble  Co<jalla  was  borne  along  with  it,  unresist- 
ing, as  recklessly  as  the  tides  of  ocean  bear  away  upon  their  dis- 
cordant billows,  the  beautiful  and  innocent  flower  which  the  tern 

(426) 


COCALLA  ESCAPES.  427 

pest  has  flung  upon  them  from  the  shores.  In  this  manner  was  she 
conducted  up  the  Savannah  to  its  sources,  passing  into  that  region 
of  glorious  scenery  which  we  now  find  in  the  county  of  Haber- 
shain,  in  Georgia.  Pursuing  a  direct  western  course  across  the 
northern  parts  of  that  State,  the  expedition  reached  the  head 
waters  of  the  Coosa.  From  town  to  town — still  submitted  to 
wherever  it  came — the  Spanish  army  proceeded  to  the  Conasau- 
ga,  the  Oostanaula,  and  other  streams.  They  explored  the 
country  as  they  went,  lodged  in  the  villages,  and  secured  the 
submission  of  the  chiefs;  some  of  whom  they  also  kept  in  capti- 
vity, the  better  to  secure  the  obedience  of  their  people.  Occa- 
sionally, De  Soto  sent  out  detachments,  right  and  left,  in  quest  of 
gold  and  silver. 

It  was  while  two  of  these  detachments,  under  the  knights, 
Villabos  and  Silvera,  had  gone  forth  to  explore  the  mountains 
of  Chisca,  that  the  Spanish  army  rested  for  a  space  of  more  than 
thirty  days,  at  a  populous  Indian  town,  called  Chiaha,  the  chief 
of  which  was  a  cousin  of  our  Princess  of  Cofachiqui.  This  chief, 
influenced  by  the  situation  of  his  kinswoman,  had  received  the 
Spaniards  with  a  seeming  good-will,  which  left  them  wholly  with- 
out cause  of  complaint.  But,  with  the  rest  from  their  fatigue, 
the  passions  of  the  invaders  passed  beyond  all  ordinary  limits, 
and  they  made  a  formal  demand  upon  the  Cassique  for  a  certain 
number  of  the  young  women  of  the  nation.  Hitherto,  the  men 
had  not  been  denied  to  serve  the  Spaniards,  in  the  capacity  of 
Tamenes.  The  demand  for  women,  implied  a  reckless  disregard 
to  all  the  sensibilities  of  the  people;  and,  in  a  single  night,  the 
Cassique  of  Chiaha,  who  was  also  held  somewhat  in  the  position 
of  a  captive,  found  himself  abandoned  by  all  his  followers. 
Wild  was  the  rage  of  the  Spaniards  at  the  flight  of  their  destined 
victims,  and  vain  were  all  the  efforts  of  the  Cassiquo  to  propitiate 
their  anger.  They  ravaged  his  country,  with  fire  and  sword, 
slaughtering  and  burning  without  mercy. 

It  was  at  this  moment,  and  while  the  invaders  were  showing 
themselves  most  licentious  and  reckless,  that  the  Princess  Co§alla, 
still  a  captive,  and  still  watched,  though  more  carelessly  than 
usual,  attempted  to  make  her  escape.  She  had  been  confided  to 
the  guardianship  of  two  soldiers,  Pedro  Martin,  and  Gil  Torres. 
Her  followers  had  laid  down  her  litter,  and  she  had  descended  to 
drink  at  a  spring  by  the  wayside.  The  two  soldiers,  meanwhile, 
had  taken  advantage  of  the  pause  to  produce  their  dice,  and  were 
busily  engagi-d  in  perilling  some  of  their  pearls  and  other  acqui- 
sitions, as  was  the  universal  practice,  upon  the  hazards  of  the 
game.  Suddenly,  they  missed  the  Princess  and  her  followers. 


428  VASCONSELOS. 

They  instantly  sought,  by  a  vigorous  search  in  the  neighboring 
woods,  to  repair  the  consequences  of  their  fault.  Unfortunately 
they  had  missed  the  captive  too  soon  after  her  flight,  to  enable 
her  to  escape  very  far.  She  was  found ;  her  followers  gallantly 
threw  themselves  in  the  path  of  the  pursuers,  and  armed  only 
with  sticks  or  billets,  hastily  snatched  up  in  the  forest,  endeavored 
to  defend  thejr  mistress.  But  they  were  immediately  butchered. 
Co<jalla,  who  had  continued  her  flight,  was  soon  overtaken,  and 
violently  seized  by  Pedro  Martin.  The  bold  ruffian,  goaded  by 
licentious  passions,  dragged  her  into  the  covert,  while  Gil  Torres 
stood  by,  as  if  keeping  sentry.  Her  cries  rang  through  the 
woods,  and  not  in  vain.  They  called  up  a  champion  in  the  peril- 
ous moment. 

Don  Philip  de  Vasconselos  had  not  lost  sight  of  the  beautiful 
Princess  who  had  so  fearlessly  shown  him  how  precious  he  was 
in  her  eyes.  But  he  forbore  to  trespass  upon  the  indulgence 
which  she  had  shown  him,  and,  with  a  rare  modesty  and  forbear- 
ance, a  delicacy  of  consideration,  which  had  few  parallels  in  that 
day  amongst  these  wild  adventurers,  he  steadily  rejected  the 
temptations  which  were  held  out  to  him  by  the  warmth  of  her 
affection  and  the  confiding  innocence  of  her  nature.  He  stu- 
diously forbore  her  presence,  except  when  specially  required  to 
communicate  with  her  by  De  Soto  himself.  In  fact,  there  was 
a  policy,  as  well  as  propriety,  in  this  forbearance.  Vasconselos 
had  discovered  that  he  uas  icatched.  Juan,  his  page,  had  made 
some  discoveries  to  this  effect,  and  had  made  them  known  imme- 
diately to  the  knight.  He  was  watched  by  the  creatures  of  Don 
Balthazar.  This  was  the  amount  of  the  discovery  :  and  there 
were  suspicious  circumstances,  coupled  with  the  conduct  of  Juan 
Ortiz,  the  interpreter,  whose  jealousy  had  been  kindled,  at  the 
expense  of  Vasconselos,  in  consequence  of  the  better  knowledge 
of  the  Indian  tongues  which  the  latter  possessed.  He  had  lost 
some  of  his  authority  with  the  Spaniards  during  the  period  when 
the  Portuguese  knight  served  wholly  as  the  medium  of  commu- 
nication between  the  red  men  and  the  white.  Ortiz  possessed, 
however,  a  rare  natural  capacity  for  the  acquisition  of  language, 
and,  with  a  strong  motive  to  goad  his  industry,  in  his  pride,  his 
mortification,  and  his  love  of  ease — for,  when  not  interpreting, 
he  was  required  to  serve  in  the  ranks  as  a  common  soldier — he 
addressed  himself  to  the  task  of  picking  up  the  dialect  of  the 
people  of  the  new  regions  into  which  he  passed.  He  had  become 
to  a  certain  extent  successful,  so  that  he  was  now  able  to  under- 
stand and  conjecture  the  purport  of  the  various  conversations 
between  the  Princess  and  the  knight,  whenever  they  took  place  in 


THE   PAGE  IS  JEALOUS.  429 

public.  On  all  these  occasions,  Co§alla  freely  gave  vent  to  her 
affections,  and  spoke  with  Vasconselos  as  frankly  in  respect  to 
her  love,  as  if  no  other  ear  but  his  own  could  comprehend  the 
purport  of  her  speech.  All  this  matter  was  reported  to  Don 
Balthazar,  who,  by  the  way,  had  been  repulsed  by  the  Princess 
in  every  approach  which  he  had  made  to  familiarity  with  her. 
How  Juan,  the  Moorish  page,  had  ascertained  these  facts,  may 
not  now  be  said,  but  he  had  learned  enough  to  set  his  master  on 
his  guard  against  the  subtle  Ortiz  and  other  spies  employed  by 
his  enemy. 

But  though  cautious,  and  avoiding  as  much  as  possible  all  in- 
tercourse with  the  Princess,  Vasconselos  watched  over  her  safety 
as  tenderly  as  if  he  returned  her  affection.  He  had  seen  the 
growing  indifference  of  De  Soto  to  the  claims  and  character  of 
the  Princess,  and  he  strove,  whenever  he  could  do  so  without 
provoking  suspicion,  to  lighten  her  bonds  and  soften  her  mortifi- 
cations. The  boy,  Juan,  was  sometimes  sent  with  tributes  to 
Cogalla,  with  delicacies  which  she  might  not  else  procure ;  and 
we  may  add  that,  though  he  obeyed  the  knight,  he  yet  did  so 
with  some  reluctance.  More  than  once  he  -expostulated  with 
Philip  upon  the  risk  which  he  incurred,  by  his  attentions,  and 
strove  to  alarm  his  fears ;  but  he  soon  found  that  such  sugges- 
tions only  inspired  the  knight  with  audacity.  He  then  ventured 
to  change  his  mode  of  attack,  and  would  speak,  with  a  sneer, 
about  the  incapacity  of  the  red  woman  to  appreciate  either  the 
delicacy  of  his  gifts  or  his  attentions.  But  to  this  suggestion, 
also,  the  reply  of  the  knight  was  apt  to  silence,  for  awhile,  the 
presumption  of  the  page. 

"  Cease,"  one  day  he  said  to  Juan — "  cease,  boy,  to  prate  of 
what  thou  knowest  not.  I  tell  thee  that  this  heathen  prin- 
cess is  a  more  beautiful  soul  in  my  sight,  than  any  that  I  know 
of  paler  blood.  And  why  shouldst  thou,  a  blackamoor,  pre- 
sume to  sneer  at  the  complexion  which  is  more  akin  to  that  of 
the  Christian  than  thine  own  ?  Go  to,  for  a  foolish  boy,  and  say 
nothing  more  in  this  wise ;  for  verily,  sometimes,  when  thou 
speakest  thus,  I  am  almost  tempted  to  hold  thee  an  enemy  to  this 
most  gracious  yet  luckless  princess  ;  whom  I  hold  in  such  esteem, 
boy,  and  regard,  that  if  I  had  yet  a  heart  to  give,  or  a  faith  to 
yield,  to  woman,  I  should  prefer  to  trust  in  her,  than  to  any  liv- 
ing beauty  in  all  Spain  or  Portugal." 

Such  speeches  were  always  apt  to  humble  and  to  silence  the 
page  for  a  season.  The  knight  no  ways  withheld  his  kindnesses 
and  protection  from  the  princess,  because  of  the  counsels  of  the 
boy.  Yet  he  suffered  her  not  to  see  that  he  watched  over  herj 


430  VASCONSELOS. 

4> 

and  now,  when  the  passions  of  the  rude  and  licentious  ruffian 
Pedro  Martin  had  dragged  her  into  the  deep  thickets,  and  she 
shrieked  aloud  in  her  Just  and  worst  terrors  for  a  champion  to 
save  her,  she  had  little  reason  to  think  that  the  chief  whom  she 
loved  before  all,  would  suddenly  appear  to  her  rescue. 

Philip  de  Vasconselos  was  fortunately  at  hand.  He  heard 
the  cries  of  the  captive  princess.  He  recognized  the  voice.  He 
knew  the  present  licentious  moods  of  the  Spaniards.  He  had 
denounced,  as  a  terrible  crime,  that  requisition  upon  the  Cassique 
of  Chiaha,  which  had  outraged  his  people,  and  driven  them  away 
to  the  shelter  of  the  woods.  His  instinct  instantly  conceived  the 
danger  of  the  princess ;  the  neglect  and  disregard  of  De  Soto 
tending  to  encourage  the  audacity  of  those  who  were  appointed  to 
watch  over  her.  He  called  to  Juan,  and  hurried  with  sword 
drawn  into  the  thickets.  He  was  suddenly  confronted  by  Gil 
Torres. 

"  It  is  nothing,  Seiior  Don  Philip,  but  the  cries  of  the  heathen 
woman,  the  Princess  of  Cofachiqui,  wlio  has  been  seeking  to  make 
escape  from  us,  and  whom  my  comrade,  Pedro,  has  just  se- 
cured." 

"  Stand  aside,  fellow — I  must  see  this  comrade  of  thine." 

Martin  raised  his  lance,  and  caught  the  knight  by  the  wrist  to 
detain  him.  With  one  blow  of  his  gauntletted  fist,  Vasconselos 
smote  him  to  the  earth,  where  he  lay  senseless.  Philip  hurried 
into  the  thicket,  where  Co§alla  still  struggled  with  all  her  might 
against  the  brutal  assailant.  But  she  was  almost  exhausted. 
She  could  no  longer  shriek.  She  could  only  oppose.  Her  long 
black  hair,  which  swept  the  ground,  was  floating  dishevelled,  her 
garments  were  torn,  her  hands  were  bloody.  At  this  perilous 
moment  she  saw  the  approach  of  the  knight  of  Portugal.  She 
knew  him  at  a  glance.  She  could  only  murmur,  "  Philip,"  and 
her  strength  failed  her.  She  sank  down  senseless.  At  the  sight 
of  Vasconselos,  the  ruffian  fled. 

The  knight  raised  the  princess  from  the  ground. 

"  Bring  water,  Juan." 

The  boy  obeyed,  bringing  the  water  in  the  knight's  helmet, 
which  he  threw  to  him  for  the  purpose.  He  dashed  the  face  of 
the  princess  with  the  cooling  sprinkle.  He  poured  the  grateful 
draught  into  her  lips.  She  opened  her  eyes.  They  lightened 
with  joy.  She  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  cried — 

"Philip!  O  Philip!" 

"  You  must  fly,"  he  said — "  fly,  Cogalla.  Do  not  waste  the 
precious  moments  now.  It  is  your  only  chance.  Use  it.  I  will 
keep  oflf  these  villains." 


COCALLA  FKEE.  431 

He  shook  himself  free  from  her,  and  darted  away.  She  stood 
mournfully  looking  at  him  for  a  while,  then  waved  her  hand  to 
hirn,  and  cried — 

"  Philip !     Philip  !" 

He  disappeared  in  the  opposite  woods ;  and  she  turned  away, 
with  clasped  hands,  and  moving  with  slow  footsteps,  bending 
form,  and  a  very  mournful  aspect,  murmuring  as  she  went,  the 
one  word  "  Philip."  She  too  was  soon  buried,  out  of  sight,  in 
the  sheltering  bosom  of  the  mighty  forest. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

"There  is  my  pledge  !    I'll  prove  it  on  thy  heart, 
Ere  I  taste  bread,  thou  art  in  nothing,  less 
Than  I  have  here  proclaimed  thee.1' 

KING  LEAR. 

WHILE  these  events  were  in  progress,  in  and  about  the  precincts 
of  the  Indian  town  of  Chiaha,  Hernando  de  Soto  was  absent  from 
the  place.  He  had  led  a  portion  of  his  forces  in  pursuit  of  the 
fugitive  red  men,  who  had  left  their  village  in  consequence  of  the 
brutal  requisition  to  render  up  their  women  ;  and  a  report  of  the 
gathering  of  a  large  body  of  the  savages,  in  a  hostile  attitude, 
not  far  off,  had  aroused  all  the  eager  fury  of  the  Spanish  govern- 
or, to  pursue  and  punish  them.  He  had  pursued  with  his 
usual  energy,  but  without  encountering  the  subtle  enemy,  who, 
when  they  pleased,  could  readily  cover  themselves,  in  such  per- 
fect concealment  in  the  deeper  forests,  that  the  whole  army  of  the 
Adelantado  could  never  ferret  them  out,  or  bring  them  to  battle. 
De  Soto  rested  his  troops,  after  the  fruitless  pursuit,  in  a  beauti- 
ful wood,  about  half  a  day's  journey  from  the  town  of  Chiaha. 
Here  he  waited  the  return  of  certain  of  his  officers,  whom  he  had 
sent  on  exploring  journeys  higher  up  the  country.  Nuno  de 
Tobar  was  thus  absent  with  twenty  lances :  Andres  de  Vascon- 
selos  had  been  sent  forward  with  his  Portuguese,  to  feel  his  way 
along  the  banks  of  the  Coosaw,  and  to  prepare  for  the  coming 
of  the  army.  There  were  a  few  other  leaders  of  the  Spanish 
host,  who,  like  these,  might  have  had  sympathies  with  Philip  de 
Vasconselos,  who  were  also  most  inopportunely  absent.  There 
was  probably  some  design  and  management  in  an  arrangement, 
which,  at  this  juncture,  removed  from  the  neighborhood  the  few 
persons  who  might  have  resisted  the  perpetration  of  a  cruel  wrong, 
and  brought  back  the  moods  of  De  Soto  to  such  a  condition,  as 
would,  at  least,  have  tempered  the  severities  which  he  might  else 
suppose  were  required  by  justice. 

The  star  of  Don  Balthazar  de  Arraro  was,  at  this  moment, 
completely  in  the  ascendant.  He  had  been  left  in  charge  of  the 
village  of  Chiaha,  when  De  Soto  undertook  the  pursuit  of  the 
fugitive  Indians.  It  was  his  task  to  assign  the  guards  to  the 
Princess  of  Cofachiqui ;  to  regulate  and  control,  in  fact,  all  the 
operations  within  his  command,  according  to  his  own  discretion. 

(432) 


MALICE   GROWS   EXULTANT.  433 

It  was  not  the  purpose  of  De  Soto  to  return  to  the  village, 
but  to  proceed  onward,  following  the  footsteps  of  the  pioneer 
force  of  Andres  de  Vasconselos  to  the  country  of  the  Alabamas. 

With  this  large  discretion  in  his  hands,  Don  Balthazar  was 
not  the  person  to  forego  the  gratification  of  any  of  his  passions. 
The  persons  whom  he  had  appointed  to  take  charge  of  the  prin- 
cess Co$alla,  were  his  own  creatures,  the  most  despicable  of  the 
common  soldiers  of  his  division.  Don  Balthazar  had  been 
scorned  by  the  princess.  He  knew  the  wild  licentiousness  which 
at  this  time  possessed  the  army.  He  knew  the  character  of  those 
to  whose  tender  mercies  he  entrusted  her.  He  might  have  pre- 
dicted the  event,  if  he  did  not, — perhaps  he  anticipated  it ;  perhaps 
he  anticipated  other  fruits  from  the  epidemic  of  license  which 
prevailed  among  the  soldiers.  It  is  not  improbable  that  when  he 
was  found  by  the  ruffian,  Pedro,  who  fled  from  the  rapier  of  Don 
Philip,  conveniently  in  waiting  in  a  lonely  lodge  on  the  edge  of 
the  forest,  that  he  himself  had  prompted  his  myrmidons  to  their 
brutality,  and  that  he  had  other  passions  to  gratify,  not  less  wild 
and  intense  than  that  of  revenge. 

Great  was  the  wrath  of  Don  Balthazar  when  Pedro  Martin 
made  his  report.  Gil  Torres,  with  a  bloody  sconce,  made  his 
appearance  soon  after,  which  confirmed  it,  The  report  was  such 
that,  by  their  own  showing,  no  good  Christians  could  have  been 
more  innocent  of  evil,  or  virtuously  set  upon  doing  good.  The 
subordinates  saved  their  superior  from  much  of  the  necessity  of 
invention ;  and  where  they  failed  as  artists,  he  supplied  the  de- 
fects in  their  case.  They  were  prepared  to  affirm  it  with  due 
solemnities ;  and,  thus  armed,  Don  Balthazar  smote  one  hand 
with  the  other,  and  exclaimed  exultingly, — • 

"  Now,  Seflor  Don  Philip,  I  have  thee  at  extremity.  Thou 
canst  not  escape  me  now." 

He  dismissed  the  two  soldiers.  He  called  up  Juan  Ortiz,  the 
interpreter,  to  a  private  conference.  He  had  secured  the  agency 
of  this  simple  fellow,  who  was  naturally  hostile  to  the  Potuguese 
knight,  as  the  latter  had  so  often  superseded  him  in  that  employ- 
ment, from  which  he  derived  so  much  of  his  importance  with  the 
army.  Don  Balthazar  had  tutored  Ortiz  already  to  his  purposes, 
while  persuading  the  interpreter  that  they  were  entirely  his  own. 
Ho,  too,  had  certain  evidence  to  give  in  respect  to  the  treason  of  Don 
Philip — for  this  was  the  serious  charge  which  Don  Balthazar  was 
preparing  to  bring  against  our  knight  of  Portugal.  For  some 
time  he  had  been  concocting  his  schemes  in  secret.  Like  some 
great  spider,  lurking  unseen  in  obscure  corner,  he  had  spread 
forth  his  numerous,  silent,  unsuspected  snares,  like  fine  threads, 
19 


4:34  VASCONSELOS. 

to  be  wrought  by  patient  malice  into  meshes,  so  strong  as  to 
bind  utterly  the  unwary  victim.  His  meshes  were  now  complete. 
The  victim  was  in  the  toils,  and  he  had  now  only  to  proceed  to 
destroy  him  at  his  leisure. 

Furious  that  the  Princess  Cocalla  should  escape,  he  was  yet 
delighted  that  the  event  afforded  him  evidence  so  conclusive 
against  Vasconselos.  He  prepared  his  despatches  with  all  care 
to  De  Soto.  He  set  forth  the  facts  in  the  case,  and  his  inferences 
He  suggested  the  course  of  procedure.  He  knew  but  too  well 
in  what  way  to  act  upon  the  enormous  self-esteem  of  the  Ade- 
lantado,  already  sufficiently  provoked  with  Don  Philip,  and  by 
what  subtle  artifices  of  suggestion  to  open  to  his  eyes  the  most 
vast  and  various  suspicions  of  the  guilt  of  the  man  he  sought  to 
destroy.  Yet  all  this,  though  done  boldly,  was  done  adroitly, 
so  that  De  Soto  never  fancied  himself  taught  or  counselled  ;  and, 
acting  promptly,  on  the  very  suggestions  given  by  Don  Baltha- 
zar, he  yet  fancied,  all  the  while,  that  he  was  the  master  of  his 
own  purposes. 

He  sent  back  instant  despatches  in  reply  to  those  which  he 
received.  It  followed  that,  at  midnight,  Philip  de  Vasconselos 
was  summoned,  in  most  respectful  terms,  to  the  quarters  of  Don 
Balthazar. 

He  prepared  at  once  to  obey.  Juan,  the  page,  would  have 
followed  him ;  but  the  summons  of  the  Don  had  entreated  him 
to  a  secret  conference ,  and  Philip  gave  the  boy  in  charge  of  his 
lodge,  and  commanded  him  to  remain  where  he  was,  awaiting 
his  return.  The  quarters  of  Don  Balthazar  might  have  been 
half  a  mile  from  those  of  Philip ;  but  the  latter  took  horse  to 
compass  the  interval.  He  went  in  armor  also.  Such  was  the 
practice;  and,  in  seasons  of  excitement,  and  with  doubtful  friends 
around  them,  such  was  the  proper  policy.  But  Philip  was  not 
at  his  ease.  His  instincts  taught  him  to  dread  treachery.  He 
knew  Don  Balthazar  too  well  to  put  faith  in  his  smooth  accents. 
He  knew  that  the  latter  must  hate,  and  would  strive  to  destroy 
him.  Juan,  the  page,  had  like  instincts,  and  an  even  better 
knowledge  of  the  man  than  had  his  master.  He  plucked  the 
knight  by  his  sleeve,  and  whispered — 

"  Beware,  Seflor : — this  summons — this  man " 

Philip  laid  his  hand  gently  pn  the  boy's  mouth,  and  said,  also  in 
a  whisper — 

"  The  good  knight  must  be  bold,  Juan,  and  being  so,  must  al- 
ways beware  that  he  is  not  too  bold.  But  to  caution  him  at  one 
hour  of  a  danger  which  he  must  confront,  by  force  of  duty,  at 
all  hours,  is  surely  an  idle  lesson.  Hear  me,  boy : — do  thou 
beware  that  thou  neglectest  not  the  duty  which  I  now  assign  thee. 


PARTING  OF   KNIGHT  AND  PAGE.  435 

I  have,  for  a  long  while,  meditated  to  give  thee  a  solemn  charge, 
in  anticipation  of  this  danger  of  death  which  walks  ever,  side  by 
side,  with  the  soldier.  There  are  three  letters,  sealed  with  my 
signet,  and  folded  in  silk,  which  you  will  find  in  the  little  lea- 
thern case  with  which  I  travel.  When  I  have  left  thee  to-night, 
detach  them  from  this  case,  and  take  them  into  thy  own  keeping. 
They  are  addressed,  one  of  them,  to  my  mother,  in  Portugal : — 
another  to  my  brother  Andres ;  and  a  third  to  a  lady  of  the 
island  of  Cuba, — whose  name — but  thou  wilt  read  it  on  the 
missive.  These  thou  shalt,  if  thou  survivest  me,  in  good  faith 
deliver.  All  other  papers  in  the  case  shalt  thou  this  very  night 
destroy,  as  soon  as  I  have  left  thee,  and  thou  find'st  thyself  alone. 
Swear  to  me,  boy,  on  the  Holy  Cross,  that  thou  wilt  do  these 
things  which  I  have  bidden  !" 

The  knight  held  up  the  cross  hilted  sword  as  he  spoke,  and  the 
boy,  with  a  convulsive  emotion,  seized  and  kissed  it.  Then,  with 
a  sob,  he  cried — 

"  Oh  !  Sefior  Don  Philip,  suffer  that  I  follow  thee  now— that 
I  go  with  thee  to  this  meeting  with  thy  enemy." 

"Not  so  :  but  I  will  send  thee  word  how  and  when  to  follow, 
should  I  not  return  before  noon  to-morrow.  For  this  night,  boy, 
farewell !" 

And  he  laid  his  hand  gently  on  Juan's  shoulder,  and  turned 
off  a  moment  after.  But  the  boy  caught  the  hand  quickly  in 
his  grasp,  pressed  it  fervently  in  both  of  his  own,  then  released 
it,  and  turned  away.  The  knight  looked  at  the  Moor  with  al- 
most loving  eyes. 

"  Verily,"  he  murmured  to  himself — "  verily,  this  boy  hath  a 
noble  heart  and  soul,  and  he  is  very  loving ;  and  with  such  a 
depth  of  feeling  as  is  seldom  witnessed  at  his  years.  Where 
the  heart  groweth  so  fast,  and  drinks  in  so  much,  it  is  rarely 
destined  for  long  life.  Life  lingers  only  with  the  hard,  and  the 
cold,  and  those  who  are  economical  with  the  affections.  The  cold 
toad,  it  is  said,  remaineth — it  cannot  be  said  that  he  liveth — for 
a  full  thousand  years,  locked  up  in  stone." 

Thus  musing,  the  knight  left  the  lodge,  and  joined  the  young 
Lieutenant  who  brought  the  message  from  Don  Balthazar,  and 
who  awaited  him  at  the  entrance.  They  mounted  horse  instantly, 
and  went  towards  the  village ;  but  scarcely  had  they  entered  the 
narrow  streets,  when  Vasconselos  found  himself  surrounded  by  a 
score  or  two  of  horse,  from  the  centre  of  whom  advanced  a  Cap- 
tain, who  said,  in  stern  accents — 

"Sefior  Don  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  some  time  of  Elvas  in 
Portugal,  and  now  in  the  service  of  His  Most  Catholic  Majesty, 


436  VASCONSELOS. 

the  King  of  Spain,  &c.,  I  arrest  thee,  by  orders  of  his  Excel- 
lency, Don  Hernando  de  Soto,  Governor  of  Cuba,  and  Adelan- 
tado  of  Florida,  under  a  charge  of  High  Treason.  Yield  thy 
sword!" 

"  Treason !"  exclaimed  Don  Philip  indignantly.  "  Treason  ! 
Where  is  my  accuser  ?" 

"  Thou  shalt  see  and  hear  all  in  due  season !  At  present,  I 
am  commanded  to  bring  thee,  without  speech  with  any  one,  to 
the  presence  of  the  Adelantado." 

Resistance, — even  if  Don  Philip  had  been  disposed  to  offer 
any — would  have  been  perfectly  idle.  He  submitted  with  quiet 
dignity. 

"  Be  it  so  !"  he  answered,  quietly  yielding  his  sword — "  con- 
duct me  to  the  Adelantado." 

The  party  set  off  that  very  instant.  The  knight  of  Portugal 
did  not  once  see  Don  Balthazar  until  they  met  in  the  presence 
of  De  Soto.  The  wily  spider  had  only  waited  to  see  Vascon- 
selos  fairly  in  the  clutches  of  the  party  placed  in  waiting  for  his 
arrest,  when  he  set  off,  with  another  party  of  horse,  bringing  up 
the  rear,  and  watchful  that  the  captive  should  find  no  means  of 
escape. 

It  was  nearly  noon  of  the  next  day  when  they  reached  the 
army.  It  was  encamped  on  a  pleasant  plain,  overshadowed 
every  where  with  great  trees  of  the  forest.  De  Soto,  with  pride 
and  passion  equally  roused,  was  impatiently  waiting  for  the 
arrival  of  the  offender.  No  delay  was  allowed  him  ;  and  the  pre- 
paration for  his  trial  had  been  made  before  he  came.  A  rude 
scaffolding,  upon  which  the  chair  of  state  had  been  placed  in 
readiness,  had  been  raised  for  the  Adelantado.  His  chief  knights 
were  grouped  immediately  around  him.  The  troops,  horse  and 
foot,  including  the  parties  just  arrived, — all  under  arms, — were 
dispersed  so  as  to  form  a  half-circle  about  the  dais,  in  which 
every  thing  could  be  heard  and  seen  by  the  meanest  soldier. 
There  they  stood,  in  grim  array,  with  burnished  weapons,  in 
mail  and  escaupil,  banner  and  banneret  flying,  and  the  gorgeous 
flag  of  Spain  floating  in  the  midst.  De  Soto  was  not  the  person 
to  omit  any  of  the  blazonry  and  pageantry,  the  state  and  cere- 
monial, which  belonged  to  his  authority.  Seated  in  his  chair  of 
state,  surrounded  by  his  knights,  he  ordered  that  the  prisoner 
should  be  brought  before  him. 

Philip  de  Vasconselos,  conducted  by  his  guards  into  the  circle, 
abated  nothing  of  his  dignity  or  noble  firmness,  as  he  stood  be- 
fore the  presence  in  which  he  could  see  none  but  enemies.  He 
looked  around  for  the  few  persons  whose  sympathies  and  sup- 


TREASON.  437 

port  he  might  have  hoped  for,  had  they  been  at  hand.  Where 
was  Nuno  de  Tobar  at  that  moment  ?  Where  was  his  brother, 
Andres  ]  In  their  absence,  he  readily  divined  that  no  precau- 
tions had  been  omitted  by  his  enemies,  for  effecting  their  object, 
lie  saw  that  his  doom  was  written. 

This  conviction,  which  threw  him  so  completely  upon  God  and 
his  own  soul,  raised  him,  with  a  strength  of  will  and  character,  to 
face  the  event,  whatever  it  might  be. 

"  I  am  here,  under  bonds,  as  a  criminal,  Don  Hernan  de 
Soto,"  spoke  Philip,  in  clear,  manly  tones,  his  eye  fixed  brightly 
the  while  upon  the  face  of  the  Adelantado: — "  I  demand  to  know 
of  what  I  am  accused,  and  that  my  accuser  shall  be  set  before 
me!" 

"  Thou  shalt  have  thy  wish,  Philip  de  Vasconselos.  The 
charge  against  thee  is  that  of  high  treason  to  His  Catholic  Majesty, 
with  whom  thou  hast  taken  service." 

"  I  brand  the  charge  with  falsehood.     I  am  no  traitor." 

"  That  shall  we  see.  Thou  shalt  behold  and  see  thy  accusers, 
and  the  witnesses  shall  be  brought  before  thee,  who  shall  prove 
thy  offence." 

Vasconselos  folded  his  arms  patiently,  and  looked  coldly 
around  the  assembly,  while  Hernan  de  Soto,  who  did  not 
think  amiss  of  his  own  eloquence,  descanted  in  a  sort  of  general 
speech  upon  the  affairs  and  necessities  of  the  army;  the  duties 
of  a  good  knight,  and  faithful  subject ;  the  high  trusts  and  con- 
fidence which  had  been  given  to  the  knight  of  Portugal,  and  the 
imperative  necessity  for  condign  punishment,  wherever  trusts  had 
been  forfeited,  and  the  trusted  person  had  shown  himself  unfaith- 
ful. Philip  smiled  scornfully,  in  a  bitter  mood,  as  he  listened  to 
certain  portions  of  the  speech ;  and  the  cheeks  of  De  Soto  red- 
dened as  he  noticed  the  expression.  His  conscience  smote  him, 
though  not  sufficiently,  when  he  reflected  upon  the  notorious 
slight  to  which  the  knight  of  Portugal  had  been  subjected  from 
the  beginning,  and  how  small  had  been  the  trust  and  favor  shown 
him. 

His  speech  over,  he  proceeded  to  his  specifications  under  it. 

"  Thou  art  charged,  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  by  the  noble 
Sefior,  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro,  with  having  betrayed  to  the 
Princess  of  Cofachiqui  the  secret  councils  of  the  conference, 
when  thou  wast  present  as  a  member,  and  when  it  was  resolved 
that  the  safety  of  the  army  required  that  we  should  take  that 
person  into  close  custody.  It  is  alleged  that  thou  didst  betray 
that  conference  to  the  Princess,  hi  order  to  persuade  her  to  es- 
cape from  our  hands." 


438  VASCONSELOS. 

"  It  is  true  that  I  did  so  endeavor  to  persuade  the  Princess 
Cogalla  to  escape,  and  in  this  was  I  faithful  to  my  oath  of  chival- 
ry. I  were  no  true  knight  to  have  kept  silence,  when  so  gross  a 
wrong  was  meditated  against  that  gentle  and  lovely  young  Prin- 
cess. But  the  council  knew  my  sentiments  in  reference  to  that 
measure.  I  did  not  conceal  what  I  thought,  that  it  was  a  base- 
ness which  would  forever  dishonor  the  Spanish  name." 

"  That  gave  thee  no  right  to  betray  the  councils  to  which  thou 
wert  admitted  on  the  implied  condition  of  thy  secrecy.  Thy 
faith  was  pledged  to  us ;  and  the  crime,  if  crime  there  were,  fell 
upon  our  heads,  not  thine.  Thou  hast  admitted  the  charge,  which 
we  should  else  establish  against  thee  by  no  less  than  three  repu- 
table witnesses." 

"  It  is  admitted,"  said'  the  knight. 

"  It  is  next  charged  that  thou  didst  recently  set  upon  the  two 
soldiers  appointed  for  the  safe  keeping  of  the  princess,  didst  as- 
sault them  with  naked  weapons,  didst  wound  one  of  them,  and 
put  in  mortal  fear  the  other,  and  didst  succeed  in  wresting  this 
princess  from  their  keeping,  so  that  she  has  made  full  escape  from 
our  care  and  custody,  thus  depriving  this  army  of  all  the  benefits 
which  grew  naturally  out  of  our  charge  of  her  person." 

"  I  found  the  two  ruffianly  soldiers  to  whom  the  princess  had 
been  confided,  setting  upon  her  with  brutal  violence  and  foul  pur- 
pose, and  as  true  knight  and  gentleman,  I  did  so  rescue  her  from 
their  keeping.  I  had  no  purpose  in  this,  but  the  safety  and  inno- 
cence of  the  noble  woman." 

The  two  soldiers  were  brought  forward,  and  loudly  protested 
their  innocence,  making  affirmation  on  the  Holy  Evangel. 

"  Thou  hear'st  ?"  said  De  Soto. 

'•  I  hear,  Sefior.  Is  it  to  be  allowed  to  these  wretches,  thus 
charged  with  a  heinous  crime,  to  acquit  themselves  by  their  own 
asseverations  ?" 

"  It  is  thy  offence,  Sefior,  and  not  theirs,  which  is  now  before 
this  tribunal."  Such  was  the  interposition  of  Don  Balthazar. 

"And  it  is  in  answer  to  the  charge  against  me,  that  I  do  accuse 
these  ruffians  and  acquit  myself." 

"  Were  such  privilege  awarded  to  the  criminal,  there  would 
be  no  witness  to  be  found  innocent,"  replied  De  Soto.  "  Thou 
dost  not  deny  the  rescue  of  the  princess  from  her  keepers  ]" 

"  I  glory  in  the  act  too  greatly  to  deny  it,"  was  the  answer. 
"  I  am  proud  of  the  noble  service." 

"  Ha !  We  shall  see  how  far  thy  exultation  in  the  deed  will 
suffice  to  acquit  thee  of  its  penalties !  Hear  further : 

"  It  is  charged  that  thou  hast  been  a  wooer  to  this  princess  for 


THE   LION   BAITED  BY  THE   CURS.  439 

her  love  ;  that  the  tie  of  marriage  exists  betweeen  thee,  accord- 
ing to  the  fashion  among  the  heathen  Apalachians,  and  in  de- 
spite of  all  Christian  rites;  and  that  she  hath  pledged  to  thee, 
and  thou  hast  accepted  the  gift,  of  the  whole  empire  of  the  Apa- 
lachian,  which  thou  mean'st  to  hold  adversely  to  the  crown  of 
Spain,  to  which  thy  sworn  faith  is  strictly  held." 

"  The  charge  is  no  less  false  than  foolish !" 

"  There  shall  be  proof  to  confound  thee  !  There  are  yet  other 
charges.  It  is  alleged — and  this  shall  be  proved  by  Juan  Ortiz, 
— that  on  a  certain  occasion,  when  at  Cofachiqui,  thou  wast  called 
upon  as  an  Interpreter  to  demand  of  the  princess  that  her  people 
be  required  to  bring  in  supplies  of  maize  and  beans  ;  that  thou 
didst  counsel  her  not  to  comply  with  our  demands ;  and  didst 
tell  her  that,  by  this  means,  she  could  starve  us  out  of  the  coun- 
try, or  so  enfeeble  us  that  the  very  children  of  the  Apalachiari 
should  then  be  the  masters  over  us  in  fight." 

"  The  charge  is  wholly  false !  By  whom  could  such  charge  be 
made,  seeing  that  no  one  of  the  army  but  myself  understood 
the  language  of  the  people  ?  Who,  then,  ctmld  say  what  words 
were  spoken  between  the  princess  and  myself?" 

"  That  will  not  avail  thee !  Our  interpreter,  Juan  Ortiz,  hath 
a  keen  ear  and  quick  comprehension ;  and  so  far  hath  he  learned 
of  this  language,  that  he  hath  been  enabled  to  follow  thee,  and 
scan  thy  proceedings,  and  detect  thy  treacheries.  He  asserts 
boldly  that  such  was  thy  speech  to  the  princess." 

"  He  hath  misunderstood  me,"  replied  the  knight  of  Portugal, 
"  from  a  too  imperfect  knowledge  of  what  he  heard.  What,  in 
truth,  was  spoken,  was  to  the  effect  that  the  Spaniards  were  not 
a  people  to  be  starved  out,  because  of  the  refusal  of  the  red  men 
to  bring  in  their  supplies — for  such  had  been  the  nature  of  the 
princess's  own  speech — and  that  they  would  seize  them  where 
found,  and,  would  never  suffer  themselves  to  starve,  even  though 
they  fed  upon  the  children  of  the  tribe.  I  was  only  too  faithful 
to  the  Spaniards  when  I  spoke  to  the  princess." 

"  Ha !  in  painting  them  as  heathen  cannibals  ?" 

"  It  was  but  a  threat,  your  Excellency." 

"A  threat !  But  wherefore,  when  this  princess  spoke  in  threats 
to  thee,  didst  thou  not  repeat  her  language  to  us  ?" 

"  Of  what  need  !  the  provisions  were  brought." 

"But  we  should  have  been  allowed  to  judge  of  the  propriety 
of  thy  arguments,  Sefior.  It  were  a  matter  to  be  weighed  so- 
lemnly, whether  we  should  suffer  thee  to  depict,  even  to  the 
Heathen,  the  Christian  warriors  of  Castile,  as  so  many  cannibals, 
eager  to  feed  on  human  flesh." 


£40  VASCONSELOS. 

"  If  your  Excellency  is  pleased  to  speak  of  this  bold  threat 
with  so  much  solemnity,  I  can  make  no  answer  to  thee." 

"  Ay,  thou  need'st  not !  Thou  hast  made  answer  sufficient  for 
thy  ruin.  Thou  hast  thyself  admitted  the  charges  which  would 
condemn  thee;  and  if  thou  did  it  not,  here  are  the  witnesses  who 
should  prove  thy  treachery.  Hast  thou  any  who  can  say  aught 
in  thy  defence1?" 

"  None,  Seflor  ;  since  I  see  that  the  few  gentlemen  who  have 
best  knowledge  of  my  nature  and  performances,  are  not  in  this 
assembly ;  it  will  be  for  those  to  answer  to  their  consciences, 
by  whom  they  have  been  sent  away  at  this  juncture." 

"Does  the  Knight  of  Portugal  impute  to  me  a  wrong1? — for  it 
was  I  by  whom  they  were  sent  away,  and  by  the  Holy  Cross, 
I  swear  that  when  they  were  thus  sent  away,  I  had  no  thought 
that  thou,  or  any  other,  should  be  arraigned  for  trial,  on  these, 
or  any  other  charges." 

"  Your  Excellency  is,  no  doubt,  free  of  offence  in  this  matter, 
but  there  is  one  person,  at  least,  for  whom  truth  could  never  say 
so  much,  and  who  hath  wrought  this  scheme  for  my  ruin.  There 
is  one  proof  that  I  might  offer — one  witness — "  and  he  paused. 
De  Soto  quickly  said — 

"  Speak,  Sefior,  and  he  shall  be  brought.  I  will  gladly  accord 
them  all  chance  of  speech  and  hearing." 

"  Nay,  Seflor,  I  know  not  that  it  will  need  or  avail.  It  was  of 
my  page,  the  boy  Juan,  that  I  had  thought.  He  knows  best  of 
my  acts  and  motives.  Besides,  he  hath  gathered  even  more  of 
this  language  of  the  Apalachian,  than  this  man,  Ortiz,  could  pos- 
sibly have  done." 

"The  boy  is  a  slave, your  Excellency — a  wretched  Moor,"  inter- 
posed Don  Balthazar  ;  "  he  can  give  no  evidence  in  a  case  affect- 
ing both  Christian  knights  and  Castilian  gentlemen." 

"  But  I  would,  nevertheless,  have  had  him  here,  Seflor  Don 
Balthazar,"  answered  De  Soto,  with  some  asperity  in  his  accents. 
"  Why  was  he  not  brought  ?" 

"  It  was  not  known,  your  Excellency,  that  his  presence  would 
be  required  as  a  witness,  or  for  any  other  purpose.  The  Sefior 
Don  Philip  did  not  signify  any  wish  upon  the  subject." 

"  And  how  should  I  have  done  so,  your  Excellency,"  answered 
Philip,  with  a  scornful  look  at  Don  Balthazar,  though  addressing 
De  Soto,  "  when  I  was  not  suffered  to  suspect  the  strait  in  which 
I  stood — when  I  was  beguiled  from  my  lodgings,  upon  false  pre- 
tences of  kindness  and  counsel,  and  seized  without  warning  or 
summons,  by  a  troop  of  cavalry  at  midnight  ?  I  saw  not  the 
boy  after  my  arrest,  and  until  the  moment  when  I  met  with  him 


CHALLENGE  TO  SINGLE   COMBAT.  441 

here,  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro  did  not  permit  that  I  should  see 
him." 

"  I  trust,  Seftor,"  said  De  Soto  to  Don  Balthazar,  "  that  thou 
hast  not  proceeded  in  any  way  in  this  matter  unbecoming  a  true 
knight." 

"  It  were  sorry  policy,  your  Excellency,"  was  the  cool  reply, 
"  to  give  warning  to  the  traitor  of  your  purpose  to  tie  his  hands 
till  the  cord  is  ready." 

"Surely  there  is  no  hardship  in  such  proceeding.  The  sus- 
pected person  is  not  to  be  suffered  chances  of  escape  ;  but  when 
the  knight  of  Portugal  was  in  thy  hands,  thou  shouldst  have 
seen  that  he  lacked  no  proper  agency  in  making  his  defence. 
Not  that  this  Moorish  boy  could  serve  thee,  Sefior,  for  his  evi- 
dence could  not  make  weight  against  the  better  testimony  of 
Christian  witnesses." 

"  And  I  know  not  that  he  could  say  any  thing,  your  Excel 
lency,  in  my  behalf.  He  could  only  asseverate  his  own  igno- 
rance of  all  treachery  on  the  part  of  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  such 
as  would  discredit  knight  or  gentleman.  I  have  no  witnesses  but 
God  and  the  blessed  Saviour.  To  them  I  make  appeal  against 
my  enemy.  But  I  claim  the  privilege  of  combat,  your  Excel- 
lency, with  my  accuser,  my  guilt  or  my  innocence  to  rest  on  the 
issue  of  the  combat.  I  throw  down  my  gauntlet  in  mortal 
defiance,  and  challenge  to  the  field  of  battle,  his  body  against 
mine,  with  lance  or  sword,  and  battle-axe  and  dagger,  or  with 
any  other  weapon  that  he  pleases,  the  foul,  base,  dishonest, 
and  perjured  knight,  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro,  as  one  who  has 
done  me  cruel  wrong,  and  has  sought,  by  false  slanders,  suborned 
witnesses,  to  do  me  to  death,  and  to  stain  with  shame  a  scutcheon 
that  has  always  hitherto  been  pure  and  without  dishonor.  There 
is  my  glove !  Your  Excellency  will  not  deny  me  to  assert  my 
truth  according  to  the  laws  of  arms.  I  claim  the  wager  of  battle  !" 

He  advanced  calmly  and  firmly  as  he  spoke,  and  throwing 
down  his  glove  at  the  feet  of  Don  Balthazar,  exclaimed,  sotto  voce, 
but  still  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  others  than  the  person  ad- 
dressed— 

"  Lift  it,  Seftor,  if  thou  wouldst  not  be  known  for  the  dastard, 
as  I  know  thee  for  the  villain  and  the  knave !" 


CHAPTER   XL. 

"  Take  this  life. 
And  cancel  these  cold  bonds.' 

CYMBEUXE. 

THERE  was  a  marked  and  lively  sensation  throughout  the 
assembly.  The  savage  and  mercenary  soldiers  of  that  day  were 
not  wholly  insensible  to  the  courage  of  a  truly  noble  soul,  and, 
little  loving,  as  they  were,  of  the  foreigners  who  had  mortified 
their  pride,  on  such  frequent  occasions,  the  Castilians  were  com- 
pelled to  acknowledge  how  admirable,  calm,  fearless  and  chival- 
rous was  the  whole  bearing  of  Philip  de  Vasconselos. 

But  Don  Balthazar  did  not  lift  the  glove.  There  might  have 
been  seen  a  red  suffusion  coloring  suddenly  his  swarthy  cheeks 
as  he  heard  the  epithets  applied  by  the  knight  of  Portugal ;  but, 
otherwise,  he  was  apparently  unmoved.  He  answered  with  a 
cool  and  quiet  indifference,  which  betrayed  the  long  and  hard 
training  of  his  political  life. 

"  Nay,  Sefior,  thy  glove  is  no  longer  such  as  an  honorable 
knight  and  gentleman  may  lift  without  stain  upon  his  fingers. 
Thou  hast  not  the  right  to  claim  the  ordeal  of  battle.  This  would 
be  thy  right  were  I  the  accuser,  and  the  only  witness  against  thee  ! 
Then  mightst  thou  claim  to  put  thy  body  as  thy  word  against 
mine,  and  cry  upon  God  to  defend  the  right !  But  such  is  not 
now  the  case.  Thy  crimes,  partially  confessed  by  thyself,  are 
also  proven  by  sundry  Christian  witnesses,  sworn  on  Holy 
Evangel.  I  claim  the  judgment,  your  Excellency," — turning 
to  De  Soto, — "  upon  the  arch  traitor,  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  who 
hath  betrayed  the  counsels  and  the  trusts  of  His  Most  Catholic 
Majesty,  given  him  in  keeping,  and  hath  meditated  and  devised 
still  further  treasons,  as  hath  been  shown  by  sworn  witnesses. 
I  claim  the  judgment  upon  the  said  traitor,  and  that  he  be  done 
to  death  without  delay  !" 

There  was  a  momentary  start, — a  slight  recoil  on  the  part  of 
Vasconselos,  as  he  heard  the  words.  It  is  barely  possible  that  he 
had  not  apprehended  that  the  malice  of  his  enemies,  would  attain 
to  this  extremity  ;  but,  if  his  emotion  expressed  surprise,  it  was 
without  fear.  He  looked  on  and  listened,  without  other  show  of 
emotion. 

(442) 


CHIVALROUS  RESIGNATION  443 

"  What  hast  thou  to  say,  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  against  this 
plea  for  judgment  ?"  demanded  the  Adelantado. 

"  What  should  I  say,  Sefior  ? — what  could  I  say,  that  would 
avail  for  my  safety  ?  To  endeavor  to  speak  at  all — to  seem  to 
hope,  indeed,  any  thing  from  my  speech,  or  any  speech,  in  this 
juncture  of  affairs, — would  only  show  me  as  ignorant  of  the  ma- 
lice of  the  base,  as  they  are  of  the  virtues  which  are  always  hate- 
ful in  their  sight !  I  would  not  seem  weak  and  foolish  even  in 
the  eyes  that  hold,  or  pretend  to  hold  me,  dishonored  !  I  have 
no  more  to  say.  I  am  in  the  power  of  mine  enemies.  I  shall 
only  speak  to  God  !" 

"  You  are  in  my  power,  Philip  de  Vasconselos." 

"  And  you,  Sefior,"  replied  the  other  boldly,  "  assured  as  you 
deem  yourself  of  the  powers  which  control  your  will  and  pas- 
sions, are  yet  serving  the  passions  of  others — passions  which  make 
thee  as  fearfully  mine  enemy,  as  if  thy  deliberate  will  and  thy 
own  bitter  prejudices  and  dislike  had  made  thee  so.  The  power 
that  is  passionate  and  proud,  and  the  pride  that  is  prejudiced, 
are  thus  ever  the  instruments  of  injustice,  and  the  blind  crea- 
tures of  the  cooler  and  subtler  criminal.  The  cunning  arts 
which,  taking  advantage  of  thy  passionate  moods,  have  made 
thee  to  look  coldly  and  even  harshly  upon  me  from  the  begin- 
ning, have  not  been  unseen  by  me,  though  unsuspected  by 
thee.  They  have  triumphed,  in  this  present  consummation, 
over  my  life  and  honor,  as  they  have  triumphed  over  thy  mag- 
nanimity and  prudence.  I  can  in  no  way  oppose  them.  No  words 
of  mine  can  now  enlighten  thee.  Thou  must  work  thy  will,  accord- 
ing to  thy  sense  of  what  is  justice.  I  yield  to  the  fate  to  which  I 
can  oppose  neither  argument  nor  valor.  But,  if  I  perish  by  thy 
doom,  and  by  the  arts  of  that  foul  and  subtle  knave  and  slander- 
er, who  has  woven  around  me  these  snares  and  meshes,  I  perish 
without  shame  or  dishonor.  Nor  do  I  perish  without  redress. 
Here,  now,  in  the  last  words  which  I  address  to  thy  ears,  Hernan 
de  Soto,  I  cite  thee  for  judgment  with  myself  before  the  Sovereign 
of  Judges,  whom  no  arts  can  mislead,  whom  no  pride,  or  pas- 
sion, or  prejudice  can  turn  from  paths  of  justice !  Thou  shalt 
meet  me  before  God's  tribunal !  There  shalt  thou  behold  that 
traitor  confounded  eternally,  who  now  sits,  smooth  and  smiling, 
cold  and  cunning,  exulting  in  the  base  consciousness  of  a  triumph 
over  one  who  kn'<ws  his  baseness,  and  who  could,  this  day,  as  he 
well  knows,  speak  of  him  such  things  as  should  make  the  foulest 
heart  in  this  assembly  turn  from  him  with  horrid  shudder,  and  a 
hideous  loathing.  I  shall  say  no  more.  Do  with  me  as  thou  wilt." 

The  patient  submission    which    resigns   itself  calmly   to  in- 


4:4:4:  VASCONSELOS. 

evitable  fate,  always  wears  an  aspect  of  great  nobleness.  When 
Philip  de  Vasconselos  was  led  from  the  presence  of  the  assembly, 
he  was  followed,  on  all  sides,  by  glances  of  silent  admiration  and 
a  compelled  respect.  He  was  withdrawn,  by  the  guards,  while 
the  Adelantado  and  his  council  sate  in  private  judgment  on  his 
fate.  Long  was  the  conference  that  followed.  Don  Balthazar 
strenuously  urged  the  doom  of  death.  But  De  Soto,  filled  with 
chivalrous  notions,  was  not  prepared  to  yield  to  the  malignant 
suggestion.  It  is  possible  that  he  somewhat  suspected  that  there 
was  some  truth  in  the  charge  of  malignity  and  slander  which 
Philip  had  brought  against  Don  Balthazar.  He  had  long  been 
aware  of  the  dislike  which  they  mutually  felt  for  each  other.  He 
said  to  the  latter — 

"  Verily,  Don  Balthazar,  this  knight  of  Portugal  hath  bitter 
thoughts  of  thee." 

"  When  had  the  criminal  other  thoughts  of  him  who  declares 
his  crime  V 

"  But  I  somewhat  fear  that  thou  hast  pushed  this  matter  to  the 
uttermost." 

"  Grant  it  be  so,  Sefior  ; — there  is  enough,  besides,  in  the  con- 
fession which  he  made  to  suffice  for  his  conviction." 

"  True !  True  !  He  hath  confessed  to  the  betrayal  of  our 
purpose  to  the  princess,  and  to  the  charge  of  assault  upon  our 
officers,  and  her  rescue." 

"  These  are  crimes  worthy  of  death  !  This  is  treason  !  What 
had  Cortez  or  Pizarro  done  to  the  knight,  or  knights,  who  had 
rescued  Montezuma  and  the  Inca  from  their  guards,  and  set 
them  free  to  work  the  ruin  of  the  army  and  the  enterprise  T' 

"  They  had.  been  made  to  taste  of  the  sharp  edge  of  the  axe ! 
- — But  1  will  not  slay  this  knight  of  Portugal !  He  hath  done  us 
good  service,  and  there  is  some  rebuke  of  conscience  that  1  feel, 
for  his  too  much  neglect,  and  for  the  cold  aspect  which  I  have 
shown  him.  Besides,  1  owe  him  a  life.  But  for  his  succor  1 
had  probably  perished  under  the  savage  assault  of  the  fierce  Flo- 
ridian,  Vitachuco.  I  cannot  forget  these  things.  I  will  not  take 
the  life  of  this  man !" 

"What!  Wilt  thou  forgive  such  treachery?  Wilt  thou  suffer 
this  traitor  still  to  harbor  with  thee  and  devise  new  treasons  ?" 

"  No  !  the  army  shall  be  purged  of  him  !  nor  shall  he  escape 
without  due  punishment.  He  is  proud !  He  is  a  belted  knight, 
and  hath  won  his  spurs  in  Christendom !  I  will  degrade  him, 
according  to  the  proper  laws  of  chivalry,  which  he  holds  in  such 
veneration!  His  shield  shall  be  reversed;  his  scutcheon  shall 
be  defaced  ;  his  armor  shall  be  taken  from  his  breast,  and  shall 


THE   DOOM   OF   TERROR.  445 

be  battered  into  shapelessness ;  his  sword  shall  be  broken  before 
his  eyes ;  his  helmet  shall  be  fouled  in  the  morass ;  and,  with 
rope  about  his  neck,  his  spurs  shall  be  hewn  from  his  heels,  by 
the  axe  of  the  common  executioner  !  Then  shall  he  be  driven 
with  blow  and  buffet  from  the  army,  and,  tied  to  a  tree  of  the 
forest,  he  shall  be  left  to  the  mercies  of  these  red  savages  of  Apa- 
lachia,  to  whom  he  hath  shown  such  favor.  Doubtless,  they 
will  remember  the  service,  and  take  him  into  some  sheltering 


wigwam 


t" 


De  Soto  having  declared  his  purpose,  there  was  no  further  ar- 
gument. Don  Balthazar,  however,  though  confounded  for  a  mo- 
ment at  the  novel  terrors  of  the  proposed  punishment,  would 
yet  have  greatly  preferred  the  sharp  and  summary  judgment  of 
the  axe.  '  Dead  men  tell  no  tales' — and  so  long  as  Philip  de 
Vasconselos  had  the  power  to  speak,  so  long  did  he  feel  for  the 
safety  of  his  terrible  secret.  He  did  not  appreciate  the  hurts  of 
honor  so  highly  as  De  Soto. 

The  knight  of  Portugal  was  once  more  brought  before  the  Ad- 
elantado.  From  the  lips  of  his  haughty  judge  he  heard  the  doom 
pronounced,  even  as  we  have  already  heard  it.  Then  did  the 
cheeks  of  the  brave  cavalier  grow  pale  ;  then  did  his  lips  quiver ; 
— then  was  his  soul  thrown  back  upon  itself,  without  being  able 
to  find  support !  Hoarsely,  with  a  cry  almost,  as  he  heard  the 
judgment,  he  implored  for  a  change  of  doom  ! 

"  Death  !  Death,  rather  than  such  doom  as  this !" — was  the 
passionate  entreaty. 

And  shuddering,  he  knelt — the  proud  man  knelt — humbling 
himself  before  man — before  the  man  who  had  already  wronged 
him, — who  wronged  him  still; — but  in  whose  power  he  stood, 
and  who,  alone,  in  that  world  of  wilderness,  possessed  the  power 
to  s.ive  him!  In  our  day,  we  should  fail  justly  to  appreciate 
the  terrible  character  of  the  doom  pronounced  by  De  Soto  upon 
the  knight  of  Portugal.  The  fantastic  chivalry  was  still  a  reli- 
gion with  its  sworn  followers.  Such  degradation  as  was  decreed 
by  the  Adelantado,  was  the  obliteration  of  the  whole  previous 
life !  It  inured  to  the  future.  It  tainted  the  name  of  fame  for- 
ever !  It  was  the  reproach  of  all  former  deeds  of  valor !  It 
was  the  death  of  the  soul,  and  of  all  the  hope,  and  pride,  and 
v\  >ry,  which  the  spirit  of  chivalry  held  most  precious  in  esteem ! 
.Pnilip  de  Vasconselos  succumbed  beneath  it !  He  sank  upon  his 
knees — he  humbled  himself  as  we  have  seen, — he  prayed  for  the 
axe — for  death, — for  any  doom  but  this! 

He  was  denied — denied  with  words  and  looks  of  scorn  ! 
Then  he  rose,  stern,  silent,  resolved  —and  strong  to  endure,  be- 


446  VASCONSELOS. 

cause  of  that  denial,  and  those  words  and  looks  of  scorn  !  He 
arose,  erect,  and  looked  coldly  on  his  judges.  But  there  was  a 
terrible  glare  from  his  eyes,  which  made  all  other  eyes  look  aside  ! 
His  lips  were  now  compressed,  but  big  drops  of  blood  could  be 
seen  slowly  to  ooze  from  between  them,  and  to  form  themselves 
in  beads  upon  his  beard.  He  stood,  and  for  a  few  moments 
there  was  a  deep  pause  in  the  assembly.  Then,  at  a  signal  from 
De  Soto,  the  executioner  came  forward  with  his  assistants.  They 
passed  a  halter  about  his  neck.  He  offered  no  resistance.  He 
did  not  even  turn  his  glances  upon  them,  when  they  laid  hands 
upon  his  shoulder.  But  as  they  led  him  out,  he  looked  steadily 
at  De  Soto,  and  said  solemnly  : 

"ADios!" 

The  words  were  not  spoken  by  way  of  farewell.  They  were 
in  the  nature  of  a  citation  ;  and  so  De  Soto  understood  them ; 
and  a  sudden  paleness,  the  shadow  of  a  presentiment,  overspread 
his  face.  But  the  emotion  passed  from  his  soul.  The  drums  and 
trumpets  sounded.  The  assembly  was  broken  up,  and  the  army, 
forming  a  grand  procession,  was  marched  at  once  to  the  place  of 
execution. 

And  there,  the  central  object  of  that  great  array,  stern,  lofty, 
helpless,  but  resigned,  stood  the  noble  victim — resolute  to  sub- 
mit, but  not  wholly  able  to  conceal  the  terrible  emotions  which 
racked  his  soul !  There,  bound  by  the  degrading  halter  to  the  tree, 
by  the  hands  of  the  common  executioner,  he  was  subjected  to  all 
the  details  of  the  cruel  and  malignant  judgment,  as  we  have  re- 
ported them.  His  sword  was  broken,  his  shield  reversed,  its 
blazonry  obliterated,  before  his  eyes !  The  armor  was  torn  from 
his  person,  and  battered  with  blows  of  a  club ;  his  helmet  was 
hurled  into  a  neighboring  morass.  And  he  saw  and  was  silent, 
— looking  the  while  steadily  upon  the  Adelantado  with  eyes  of 
a  deep  mysterious  solemnity,  that  spoke  for  dread  and  terrible 
thoughts,  as  well  as  sufferings  ! 

But  when  the  executioner  approached  with  his  axe — when  the 
prisoner  was  made  to  lift  his  feet  and  place  them  upon  the  block, 
and  when,  one  by  one,  the  golden  spurs  of  knighthood  were  hewn 
from  his  heels  by  repeated  blows,  then  broke  the  groan  of  agony 
from  his  overcharged  bosom,  and  he  threw  out  his  powerful  arms 
and  grasped  the  stalwart  executioner,  even  as  he  had  been  ?,n 
infant  in  his  grasp,  and  hurled  him  away,  staggering,  while  a  howl, 
rather  than  a  cry,  following  the  groan,  seemed  sent  up  to  heaven 
— by  way  of  reproach,  for  that  it  looked  on,  and  beheld  this  ter 
rible  injustice,  while  the  great  eye  of  the  sun  peered  down  from 
the  noon-day  skies,  as  bright  and  serene  as  if  all  below  was 


PHILIP  LEFT  TO   HIS   FATE.  447 

becoming  in  heaven's  eye  as  it  was  beautiful  to  that  of  man ! 
Vasconselos  hurled  away  the  executioner,  but  not  before  his  task 
was  done !  The  spurs  had  been  smitten  off,  clean  at  the  heel, 
and  the  work  of  degradation  was  complete.  His  violence  was 
the  sudden  impulse  of  an  accumulated  despair,  which  was  no 
longer  suppressible. 

A  moment  after  this  one  demonstration  of  agony  and  vio- 
lence, and  the  knight  of  Portugal  remained  passive.  S.till  fettered 
by  the  cord  of  the  hangman,  and,  by  the  neck,  to  a  sapling  of  the 
forest,  he  looked  on  the  rest  of  the  proceedings  with  a  strange, 
but  not  unnatural  calm. 

Then  De  Soto  made  a  speech  to  his  army,  the  substance  of 
which  we  may  conjecture.  The  bugles  sounded  ;  the  cavalry 
wheeled  into  compact  squadrons,  the  infantry  shouldered  arms, 
and,  to  the  sound  of  triumphant  music,  the  whole  army  marched 
from  the  ground.  Fettered  to  the  tree,  with  only  a  sufficient 
length  of  rope  to  enable  him  to  sink  down  at  its  foot,  Philip  de 
Vasconselos  was  left  alone,  in  the  centre  of  that  now  dreary 
forest. 

The  army  was  under  marching  orders.  Preparations  for  the 
renewal  of  its  progress  had  been  made  before  the  trial,  and  that 
act  consummated,  the  legions  of  De  Soto  departed  the  spot  to 
see  it  no  more !  Philip  was  left  to  his  fate — the  fangs  of  the 
wolf,  the  scalping-knife  of  the  savage,  or  the  crueller  death,  by 
remorseless  hunger !  He  could  hear  the  distant  music,  gradually 
growing  fainter:  finally,  the  faint  bugle-note  advised  him  of  the 
movement  of  the  rear-guard  ;  and  soon,  this  too  melted  away  in 
the  great  world  of  space,  and  he  remained  with  silence,  in  the 
depths  of  the  Apalachian  solitudes ! 


CHAPTER    XLI. 

"  Had  they  known, 

A  woman's  hand  secured  that  deed  her  own.     .     .     . 
The  worst  of  crimes  had  left  her  woman  still." 

CORSAIK. 

THE  army  of  the  Adelantado  proceeded  on  its  inarch  along  the 
waters  of  the  Coosaw,  but  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro  returned,  with 
his  detachment  of  cavalry,  to  the  village  of  Chiaha.  To  him  was 
allotted  the  duty  of  bringing  up  the  rear-guard,  with  the  heavy 
baggage;  and  he  was  required  to  remain  in  Chiaha  until  the 
smaller  bodies  which  had  been  sent  forth  on  exploring  expedi- 
tions, under  Nuno  de  Tobar,  Andres  de  Vasconselos  and  others, 
should  return.  Chiaha  was  the  appointed  place  <ff  their  rendez- 
vous. 

There  was  an  exulting  spirit  in  the  bosom  of  Don  Balthazar, 
as  he  led  his  troopers  away  from  the  field  where  he  had  witness- 
ed the  degradation  of  Philip  de  Vasconselos.  He  had  triumphed 
over  his  enemy  ;  and  there  was  now  no  danger  that  the  knight 
of  Portugal  would  ever  cross  his  path  in  the  progress  of  the 
expedition.  The  penalty  of  his  return  was  death.  Don  Baltha- 
zar would  have  preferred  that  this  punishment  should  have  been 
the  one  inflicted.  He  did  not,  himself,  attach  much  importance 
to  what  he  thought  the  fantastic  notions  of  honor  and  shame, 
which  were  taught  by  the  laws  of  chivalry ;  and,  were  it  not  that 
the  punishment  of  Don  Philip  implied  his  utter  banishment  from 
the  army,  and  his  almost  certain  death,  in  the  condition  in  which 
he  had  been  left,  from  the  fierce  fangs  of  the  wild  beast,  or  the 
reckless  arrows  of  the  savage,  he  might  have  been  still  ill  at  ease 
in  respect  to  some  of  his  securities.  In  truth,  he  still  had  some 
lurking  apprehensions  that  Philip  de  Vasconselos  was  yet,  in 
some  way,  his  evil  genius ;  destined  yet  to  re-appear,  and  con- 
front him  with  that  danger  which  had  so  long  haunted  his  ima- 
gination !  With  this  fear,  it  occurred  to  him,  more  than  once, 
to  send  back  one  of  his  troopers  to  dispatch  secretly  the  de- 
graded knight ;  but  this  was  placing  himself  too  completely  in 
the  power  of  his  creature  ;  and  he  well  knew  that  such  a  fact, 
revealed  to  De  Soto  and  the  army,  would  be  necessarily  his  own 

(448) 


THE   MELANCHOLY  PAGE.  449 

ruin ;  would  confirm,  to  the  Adelantado,  the  accusations  made 
by  Vasconselos,  and  would  arm  the  few  friends  of  the  latter — 
few,  but  brave  and  powerful — with  perpetual  hostility  and  ven- 
geance !  He  was  content  to  leave  the  doomed  noble  to  his  fate, 
as  it  had  been  pronounced  by  De  Soto,  and  executed  before  his 
eyes. 

Persuading  himself  that  his  death  was  inevitable,  or,  at  all 
events,  that  the  danger  from  that  one  source  had  been  driven 
wholly  from  his  own  path,  he  went  on  his  way  to  Chiaha  with 
rejoicing  and  exulting  spirit.  He  reached  the  village  late  in  the 
night.  There  was  still  an  eager  mood  hurrying  him  to  other 
performances ;  and  when  he  had  dismissed  his  troops  to  their 
several  stations,  received  the  report  of  the  officer  left  in  com- 
mand, and  refreshed  himself  with  a  bottle  of  canary,  he  threw 
himself  once  more  into  the  saddle.  The  soldier  on  duty  before 
his  quarters,  asked,  "Shall  I  mount  and  follow  you,  SenorT" 

"  No  !  Keep  your  post.     I  want  nobody." 

The  expedition  which  now  prompted  the  nocturnal  move- 
ments of  Don  Balthazar,  was  of  a  sort  to  require  no  witnesses. 
The  arch-fiend,  now  working,  more  than  ever  powerful  within  his 
soul,  and  stimulating  a  crowd  of  passions  into  eager  exercise, 
was  all-sufficient  for  his  companionship.  Don  Balthazar  gallop- 
ed off,  in  the  direction  of  the  cabin  which  had  been  occupied  by 
Philip  de  Vasconselos ! 

The  page,  Juan,  did  not  sleep.  He  had  fully  executed  the 
trusts  given  him  in  charge  by  his  master;  had  possessed  himself 
of  the  three  papers,  and  destroyed  the  rest.  This  employment, 
and  the  contemplation  of  the  several  addresses  of  the  latter,  had 
filled  the  boy  with  the  most  melancholy  mood.  One  of  the  let- 
ters he  did  little  but  contemplate.  With  perpetual  tears  in  his 
eyes,  he  did  nothing  but  read  over  the  superscription.  The  day 
was  passed  in  sorrows  and  vague  apprehensions.  Vasconselos  did 
not  return  by  noon.  The  boy  inquired  for  him  in  vain,  and  could 
only  learn  that  he  had  ridden  out  with  the  detachment  of  horse 
upon  a  secret  expedition.  But  why  had  he  not  been  permitted 
to  accompany  this  expedition  ?  The  privilege  had  never  before 
been  denied  him.  There  was  a  mystery  in  the  affair  which  trou- 
bled him,  and  he  neither  ate  during  the  day,  nor  sought  for  sleep 
during  the  night.  He  was  sleepless  from  intense  nervous  ex- 
citement, and  sate,  or  walked,  as  the  night  advanced,  in  the 
loneliness  of  that  rude  chamber  of  the  red  man,  which  was 
dimly  lighted  by  the  brands  of  pine  which  blazed  flickeringly 
upon  the  hearth.  While  thus  moodily  employed,  he  heard  the 
gallop  of  a  horse  approaching.  He  trembled,  and  clasped  his 


450  VASCONSELOS. 

hands ;  then  felt  that  all  the  letters  were  safe  within  his  bosom, 
and  experienced  a  strange  and  sudden  dread  lest  the  knight 
should  resume  the  charge  of  them.  There  was  one  letter  which 
he  would  not  willingly  give  up, — the  contents  of  which  he  dread- 
ed, yet  desired  to  peruse. 

"  It  is  he — it  is  Philip  !"  murmured  the  boy,  recovering,  and 
relieved  of  the  apprehensions  which  had  troubled  him  for  the 
safety  of  the  knight.  '•  It  is  Philip  !"  and  he  hastily  undid  the 
fastenings  of  the  entrance.  The  horseman  threw  himself  off  the 
saddle  at  this  moment,  and  hastily  pushed  his  way  into  the 
cottage. 

"Senor!"  said  the  page,  somewhat  taken  by  surprise  at  the 
manner  and  hurried  movement  of  the  knight,  so  unlike  that  of 
Vasconselos.  "Senor  Philip  !"  he  said,  timidly  and  inquiringly. 

"  Not  he,  my  good  lad,  but  one  quite  as  good,  1  fancy !"  an- 
swered the  stranger,  grasping  the  boy's  wrist  and  dragging  him 
towards  the  light.  In  the  next  moment,  Juan  identified  the  per- 
son of  the  intruder.  To  recoil  was  an  involuntary  act,  as  he 
exclaimed — 

"Don  Balthazar!" 

"  Ay,  methinks,  my  good  boy,  I  should  be  as  well  known  to 
thee  by  this  time  as  the  cavalier  whom  thou  servest.  But  why 
dost  thou  recoil  ?  Dost  thou  fear  me  ?" 

"  No,  Sefior,  but " 

It  was  with  very  great  effort  that  the  boy  was  enabled  to  say 
these  latter  words,  which  he  did  with  husky  and  tremulous  ac- 
cents, the  sounds  dying  away  in  his  throat. 

"  Ay,  but  thou  dost.  Yet  thou  shouldst  not.  Henceforth, 
thou  shalt  look  upon  me  as  thy  best  friend  and  protector,  since 
thy  late  master  can  take  care  of  thee  no  longer." 

"  My  late  master !  the  Senor  Philip — Don  Philip  de  Vasconse- 
los !  Speak,  Sefior,  tell  me  what  hath  happened  to  my  master  1 
Where  is  he  ?  Hath  he  been  wounded — is  he " 

"  Oh  !  thou  hast  got  thy  voice  of  a  sudden.  But  I  am  too  slow 
of  speech  to  answer  thy  rapid  inquiries.  No  more  of  thy  late 
master,  boy  !  Thou  art  henceforth  to  be  my  page.  I  shall  give 
thee  lodgings  as  near  my  own  as  thou  hast  had  to  those  of  Don 
Philip.  Thou  shalt  be  a  sharer  of  my  chamber,  boy,  as  thou 
hast  been  of  his !  Ay,  and  I  will  caress  thee  and  care  for  thee 
quite  as  tenderly.  I  know  thy  great  merits  as  a  page,  and  I  see 
thy  virtues  beneath  the  unnatural  black  coating  which  wrap  them 
up  from  all  other  eyes.  His  eyes  never  looked  on  thee  more 
tenderly  than  mine  shall  look,  boy ;  and  thou  shalt  lose  nothing 
of  pleasure  and  indulgence  by  the  exchange  of  one  master 


TERROR  OF  JUAN.  451 

for  another.  What  say'st  thou  ?  Is  the  thing  pleasing  in  thy 
sight  ?" 

"I  know  not  what  thou  meanest;  I  do  not  understand  thee! 
Only  tell  me,  Sefior,  where  is  Sefior  Philip — Don  Philip " 

"  Sefior  Philip — Don  Philip !  nay,  why  not  say  to  me,  as  thou 
hast  doubtless  said  a  thousand  times  to  him — Philip — Philip — 
my  Philip — dear,  dear  Philip!  Is  it  so,  my  very  perfect  black- 
amoor ?  Was  it  not  thus  that  the  dulcet  accents  ran,  in  every 
possible  variety  of  sweet  and  pleasant  change  ?  And  by  what 
sweet  name  did  our  Philip  requite  thee,  my  gentle  Moor1?" 

The  boy  was  bewildered.  It  did  not  lessen  his  disquiet  and 
bewilderment,  that  the  wine  was  evidently  doing  warm  work  with 
the  brain  of  the  questioner :  but  Juan  had  acquired  a  strength 
and  confidence  in  army  life,  and  in  the  daily  communion  with 
Vasconselos,  which  now  rendered  him  comparatively  cool  in 
moments  of  difficulty,  and  under  embarrassing  relations.  He 
strove  successfully  to  combat  his  nervous  tremors  and  apprehen- 
sions, and  to  answer  calmly. 

"The  Senor  Balthazar  speaks  very  strange  things  to  me,  which 
I  do  not  understand  !" 

"  Ay,  but  1  will  not  leave  thee  in  such  blessed  ignorance,  my 
good  boy.  Know  then  that  thy  old  master  is  disposed  of." 

"  Slain  !  slain  !  Thou  dost  not  tell  me,  Sefior,  that  my  mas- 
ter  " 

"  No  !  no  !  not  exactly  quiet  yet,  unless,  indeed,  the  red  men 
have  been  about  him  with  their  stone  hatchets  and  macana?, — or 
unless  some  stray  wolf,  or  pard,  hath  followed  a  keen  scent  to 
where  he  lies  on  the  field  where  the  Adelantado  hath  but  lately 
camped."  *, 

"Seftor,  for  the  love  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  tell  me  truly  of  my 
Lord  !"  And  there  was  no  restraint,  now — no  measure,  in  the 
wild,  earnest  pleadings  of  that  passionate  voice.  "  Tell  me  what 
hath  happed — how  he  hath  been  circumvented — if  still  he 
lives !" 

"  Ha !  ha !  Thou  canst  speak  out  now,  in  thy  natural  voice  of 
love  and  passion.  Thou  forget'st  the  blackamoor  policy  !  Well ! 
Thou  art  in  growing  condition  to  hear  the  truth.  Thou  shalt 
hear.  Thy  lord,  thy  master,  thy  Portuguese  Don,  hath  paid  the 
penalty  of  his  crimes — he  hath  been  disgraced  from  knighthood, 
stript  of  sword  and  armor,  his  spurs  hewn  from  his  heels,  his 
neck  haltered  to  a  tree,  and  beaten  with  blows  of  the  execution- 
er, he  is  left  to  the  storms  of  heaven  and  the  hatchet  of  the 
Apalachian !" 

"  Jesu  !  have  mercy  !     And  thou  hast  done  this  thing  ?" 


452  VASCONSELOS. 

"  Nay,  but  a  little  towards  it.  1  but  sped  the  progress,  and 
nodded  to  the  judgment,  and  smiled  on  the  execution.  I  put  the 
arrow  on  the  string  and  found  the  mark.  'Twas  De  Soto  that 
sped  it  from  the  bow !" 

The  boy  clasped  his  hands  wildly  together.  The  knight  began 
to  sing  a  vulgar  ballad  then  current  in  the  army.  There  was 
something  very  fearful  in  the  strong  glance  which  the  page  set 
upon  the  face  of  the  singer,  whose  every  look  and  tone  betrayed 
the  full  consciousness  of  his  triumph.  He  stooped,  while  sing- 
ing, and  threw  fresh  brands  upon  the  fire.  Juan  suddenly  darted 
away  as  if  to  pass  him  ;  but  the  knight  was  not  unobservant, 
caught  him  by  the  arm,  as  he  went  forward,  and  whirled  him 
baak  to  the  corner  of  the  chamber  beyond  him. 

"  No  !  no !  thou  dost  not  cease  to  be  page,  boy,  in  the  loss  of 
one  master !  One  but  makes  way  for  another  ;  and  I  am  instead 
of  thy  Philip ;  with  all  his  rights  and  privileges,  my  sweet  Moor. 
But  thou  shalt  lose  none  of  thine  in  becoming  page  to  me.  Oh ! 
no !  thou  shalt  share  my  lodge,  my  couch,  an  thou  wilt,  for  my 
taste  revolts  not  at  thy  dusky  visage,  when  the  features  are  so 
fine,  and  the  good  faith  of  the  owner  so  perfect.  Thou  art  mine, 
now,  my  boy !" 

"  Senor !  I  must  go  and  seek  Don  Philip  !"  was  the  calmly 
expressed  resolution  of  the  boy. 

"  Thou  wouldst  go  in  vain.  Thou  wouldst  find  his  bones  only. 
He  hath  given  rare  picking  to  the  panther." 

"  Sefior,  I  must  go  !" 

"  Stay  where  thou  art !" 

"  If  thou  hast  compassion  in  thy  soul " 

"  Pshaw  !     I  know  not  such  folly." 

"  As  a  knight,  thou  know'st  it  is  my  duty  to  seek  my  lord." 

"Not  when  he  is  dishonoied,  boy!  Henceforth,  I  am  thy 
knight,  I  tell  thee !  Thy  master — in  whose  hands  thy  life  lies, 
even  as  an  egg,  which  I  can  crush  to  atoms  with  a  will !  What ! 
thou  pretendest  that  thou  know'st  me  not !  Thou  wouldst  not 
admit  to  thyself  that  I  know  thee  !  Does  thy  imposture  tickle 
thee  so  much,  that  thou  art  resolute  not  to  see  and  believe  ?" 

The  page,  indeed,  had  seen  but  too  well !  Yet  he  was  reso- 
lute, as  Don  Balthazar  had  said,  not  to  see !  It  was  still  possible 
— so  he  persuaded  himself — that  his  persecutor  spoke  from  his 
drunkenness,  rather  than  his  knowledge  ; — and  that  his  secret, — 
for  he  had  one — was  still  unsuspected,  or,  at  least,  unknown. 
He  answered  accordingly,  with  as  much  calmness  of  temper  as  he 
could  command. 

"  Senor,  I  know  not  what  thou  mean'st  or  intend'st ;  but  thou 


THE   MASK  TORN   OFF.  453 

surely  canst  not  design  to  keep  me  from  the  good  knight,  who  hath 
been  my  kind  friend  and  benefactor, — my  preserver  frequently, 
— in  this  weary  march  through  the  country  of  the  Apalachian  ? 
You  tell  me  that  he  is  gone  from  me  and  lost  to  me — you  tell 
me  that  he  hath  undergone  a  cruel  judgment,  for,  I  know  not 
what  offence  ; — but  you  tell  me  that  he  still  lives  !  Let  me,  as 
in  duty  bound,  go  to  the  service  of  the  good  knight,  Don  Philip, 
and  succor  him,  if  I  may,  and  wait  on  him  as  I  should  !  I  en- 
treat this  of  thy  nobleness  and  mercy,  as  a  knight  thyself,  who 
well  knowest  what  the  dutiful  page  oweth  to  the  cavalier  he 
serves !" 

The  eyes  of  Don  Balthazar  answered  the  speaker  with  a  wicked 
leer. 

"  This  passeth  belief!"  he  exclaimed.  "  Well,  it  is  a  sort  of 
virtue  to  hold  out  denial  to  the  last ;  though,  when  the  mask  is 
torn  from  the  face,  it  is  but  a  stupid  sort  of  virtue  to  do  so  ! 
And  thou,  too,  who  knowest  me  so  well, — thou,  Olivia  de  Alvaro 
— to  dream  that  I  should  not  know  thee  through  any  disguise 
\Vhut  a  foolish  child  thou  hast  been,  and  art !  But  I  knew  thee 
from  the  first  day  that  we  landed  !  I  watched  thee  and  thy  para- 
mour in  all  thy  progress !  Thou  hast  slept  with  him  beneath 
the  same  tree  ;  in  the  same  shady  thicket ;  under  the  same  tent ; 
in  the  same  hovel  of  the  red  man ;  and  the  same  considerate 
handmaiden,  the  night,  hath  drawn  the  curtains  gently,  to  con- 
ceal the  loving  embraces  of  the  gallant  Don  and  his  Moorish 
page !" 

"  Foul-mouthed,  as  false !  It  is  untrue  !  We  have  slept  to- 
gether in  a  thousand  places,  and  the  good  knight  hath  watched  and 
sheltered  me  as  a  noble  gentleman,  but  he  hath  never  done  me 
wrong.  Even  now  he  knows  me — wherever  he  be,  and  whatever 
be  his  fate, — only  as  the  boy  that  I  appear  to  other  eyes !  But 
I  hope  not  to  teach  the  truth  of  this  to  a  soul  so  incapable  of  vir- 
tue as  is  thine !  It  is  enough  that  it  is  known  to  me,  and  to 
the  blessed  angels,  who  have  watched  us  from  above !". 

Don  Balthazar  passed  to  the  door,  and  finally  fastened  it 
within.  He  approached  the  damsel. 

"  It  matters  little,  Olivia,  whether  he  knew  thee  as  boy  or  wo- 
man. He  will  know  thee  no  more.  Thou  art  henceforth  mine. 
Thou  shalt  appear  in  the  army  as  my  page;  and, — child,— thou 
shalt  sleep  in  my  tent,  and  under  the  tree  with  me ;  and  the  night 
shall  yield  us  the  same  friendly  veil  which  she  granted  to  thee 
and  thy  cavalier.  It  was  no  fault  of  the  handmaid,  I  warrant,  if 
the  knight  made  no  discovery  of  thy  secret !  But  I  am  wiser 
than  he  ;  and  my  knowledge  shall  the  better  profit  us  both.  Nor 


454  VASCONSELOS. 

need  thou  put  on  the  airs  of  thy  Biscayan  mother  with  me  now  ! 
We  have  DO  such  restraints  here,  as  restrained  our  raptures  and 
made  us  fearful  in  Havana.  Here,  there  is  something  more  than 
freedom  !  Thou  know'st  the  license  of  the  army.  Thou  hast 
seen  that  it  could  not  save  a  princess  of  the  people.  Suppose  it 
said  to  the  soldiers,  This  blackamoor  page  is  the  girl  whom 
Philip  de  Vasconselos  entertained  par  amour — and  what  will  fol- 
low ?  I  tell  thee,  girl,  in  very  love  of  thee,  they  will  tear  one 
another  to  pieces,  and  tear  thy  delicate  limbs  to  pieces  also  !  Art 
thou  wise  to  see  this,  and  to  understand  how  much  better  it  will 
be,  still  to  keep  thy  secret,  and  to  serve  me  as  a  page,  even  as 
thou  hast  served  this  knight  of  Portugal  ?" 

For  a  time,  a  strong  despair  sate  in  the  eyes  of  Olivia.  But 
she  gathered  strength  and  comparative  composure,  while  he 
was  speaking,  and  when  he  was  done,  she  said  with  closed  lips 
and  teeth, — 

"  I  will  perish  first !" 

"  Nay,  nay,  thou  shalt  not  perish  !  I  have  done  too  much  to 
secure  thee  in  my  keeping  to  lose  thee  now ;  when  I  have  at  last 
securely  won  thee.  I  have  pursued  this  knight  of  Portugal,  until 
I  destroyed  him,  because  he  knew  the  secret  of  thy  shame  and 
my  dishonor  !  He  is  no  longer  a  danger  to  either  of  us. — And 
thou  art  won !  We  are  here,  alone — in  the  deep  midnight, — 
with  no  eye  to  see,  no  hand  to  rescue  thee  from  my  grasp, — and, 
with  the  treasure  thus  won, — and  the  precious  beauty  thus  in  my 
embrace, — shall  I  now  recoil  from  my  possessions  ? — shall  I 
withdraw  my  claim,  and  abandon  the  very  bliss  for  which  I  have 
toiled  in  such  secret  ways,  and  perilled  so  many  open  dangers  1 
No,  my  Olivia,  thou  art  now  mine,  more  certainly  than  ever.  It 
needs  now  no  subtle  opiate  to  subdue  thy  senses.  It  needs  now 
no  future  watchful  anxiety,  to  watch  the  paths,  and  dread  ever 
more  the  danger  and  detection !  Here,  we  have  perfect  freedom. 
Life  means  privilege,  to  take  and  keep  !  We  have  no  laws  but 
such  as  justify  the  passions ;  and  just  now,  the  passions  are  the 
only  laws  that  require  to  be  obeyed.  Thou  art  mine,  girl, — 
mine,  Olivia, — and  I  seize  thee  with  a  rapture,  which,  sweet  as 
thy  embrace  hath  been  of  yore,  promises  now  a  blessing  as  far 
beyond  the  past,  as  the  joys  of  heaven  are  claimed  to  be  beyond 
those  of  earth !  Wilt  thou  be  mine,  and  submit  to  be  my  wil- 
ling page,  as  thou  hast  been,  par  amour,  the  page  of  Vasconselos?'' 

'•  Touch  me  not,  Seflor !" — she  said,  as  he  approached  her. 
"Touch  me  not!" 

"Ay,  but  I  will  touch  thee,  and  take  thee,  and  wind  thee  in 
my  embrace,  I  tell  thee  ! " 


SHARP  AND  SUDDEN.  455 

"  Touch  me  not !"  as  he  continued  to  approach. 

"  Thou  art  mine,  I  tell  thee  !"  and  he  laid  one  hand  upon  her 
shoulder,  and  tore  wide  the  fastenings  of  the  jacket  of  escaupil, 
or  cotton  armor,  which  she  wore,  until  the  white  bosom  escaped 
from  its  bonds,  and  grew  revealed  to  the  eyes  of  the  satyr  !  At 
the  same  moment,  the  three  letters  of  Vasconselos  escaped  also, 
and  fell  upon  the  ground. 

"  Ha !"  said  he,  stooping  to  lift  them,  while  he  still  kept  one 

hand  upon  her  shoulder "  Ha  !     What  love  chronicles  have 

we  here?" 

He  was  about  to  gather  them  up,  when,  with  broken  accents, 
she  cried — 

"  It  must  be  so  !  It  hath  been  decreed  !  It  is  a  command  ! 
It  is  from  God  himself!  I  must  do  it !  There  is  no  escape  !  I 
knew  it  would  come  to  this  at  last.  I  felt  sure  that  I  should 
have  to  do  it !" 

And  while  speaking  thus,  as  if  to  herself,  she  drew  the  dagger 
of  the  page,  and  smote  the  knight  upon  the  neck,  even  ad  he 
stood  stooping.  Had  she  been  taught  by  anatomical  science 
where  best  to  plant  the  blow  for  immediate  death,  her  hand 
could  not  have  been  more  effectually  guided  than  by  its  sudden 
instinct.  She  smote  but  once,  and  while  a  husky  and  gurgling 
sound  issued,  with  a  volume  of  blood,  from  the  throat  of  the  vie 
tun,  he  fell  forward  upon  the  earth,  and  lay  motionless  at  her 
feet !  She  hastily  gathered  up  the  letters  which  his  hands  had 
only  touched — they  were  already  spotted  with  his  blood, — thrust 
them  once  more  into  her  bosom,  opened  the  door,  and  darted 
from  the  cabin  !  In  a  few  moments  more,  she  was-  mounted 
upon  her  own  steed  and  flying — flying  far  and  fast,  into  the  cover 
of  the  forests !  and  ever  as  she  rode,  she  murmured  to  herself, 
gasping  and  breathing  heavily — "  I  knew  it  must  be  so  ! — I  felt 
that  it  had  to  be  done !  It  had  to  be  done  !  It  had  to  be  done .' 
Holy  Virgin  t  It  had  to  be  done,  and  by  my  hands !" 


CHAPTER   XLII. 

"  Now  shall  we  pluck  him  from  his  wretched  plight, 

And  make  misfortune  favor."  OLD  PLAT 

THE  army  of  De  Soto  marched  down  the  west  side  of  the 
Coosa,  and  were  soon  buried  deeply  in  the  virgin  wildernesses 
of  Alabama.  They  gave  but  few  thoughts  to  the  noble  victim 
whom  they  had  dishonored  and  left  to  perish  in  the  ravening 
solitudes  of  the  forest.  To  him,  the  short  remnant  of  the  day 
passed  in  such  a  dreariness  as  may  better  be  imagined  than  de- 
scribed. Fettered  rigidly  to  the  tree,  at  the  footof  which  he  was 
barely  suffered  to  repose  in  a  half-crouching  position,  Vasconselos 
was  scarcely  conscious  of  the  hours  as  they  glided  from  daylight 
into  darkness.  A  savage  gloom  covered  up  his  soul,  and  shut 
out  the  ordinary  transitions  and  aspects  of  external  life  from  his 
vision.  In  the  case  of  one  so  noble  of  soul,  so  proud  of  spirit,  so 
sensitive  to  shame  and  honor,  we  may  fancy  how  terribly  intense 
were  the  horrors  of  such  a  doom  as  that  which  he  had  been  mad* 
to  endure.  We  may  equally  understand  how  regardless  he  had 
become  in  respect  to  the  future,  from  his  endurance  of  the  past. 
The  day  passed  blankly,  before  his  eyes ;  the  stars  came  out, 
looking  dawn  upon  him  with  sad  aspects  through  the  overhang- 
ing boughs  of  the  forest  trees,  with  like  blankness  of  expression. 
He  heeded  not,  he  did  not  behold  the  tender  brightness  in  their 
looks.  He  lay  crouching,  a  grim  savage,  denied  the  only  prayer 
which  his  soul  could  possibly  put  up  in  that  dreary  trial,  that  of 
a  manly  death,  through  a  fierce  and  terrible  struggle  with  his 
enemies. 

And  so,  hour  after  hour,  in  a  hopeless  craving  for  freedom  of 
limb,  and  the  exercise  of  a  mighty  muscle  in  the  deadly  strife ! 
and  the  hopeless  craving  became  at  length  debility.  Mental  and 
physical  exhaustion  began  to  supervene.  He  became  conscious 
of  aspects  and  influences  which  taught  to  his  waning  faculties  the 
fear  of  approaching  madness.  He  was  conscious  of  an  incerti- 
tude of  thought  and  sense,  which  was  the  most  oppressive  of  all 
the  painful  feelings  which  he  now  endured.  He  felt  that  his 
senses  were  escaping  him,  or  becoming  so  diseasedly  acute  as  to 
confound  his  judgment.  He  felt  that  he  could  no  longer  bring 

(456) 


THE   VULTURE.  457 

to  bear  upon  his  faculties  the  exercise  of  a  controlling  will  and  a 
sober  mind.  Strange  hues  and  colors,  and  gleams,  were  flashing 
before  his  eyes ;  strange  sounds,  and  murmurs,  and  voices,  were 
mingling  in  his  ears  ;  and  he  could  feel,  as  it  were,  the  touches 
of  tongues  of  flame  that  were  put  out  to  meet  the  ends  of  his 
fingers,  thrilling  them  with  curiously  painful  sensations  of  cold 
and  heat  alternately.  It  was  not  the  stars  that  he  saw,  but  great 
eyes  that  swept  down  to  him  from  above,  wheeling  about  him  in 
mazy  dances,  and  pausing  in  troops  to  look  down  into  his  own. 
In  the  midst  of  these  aspects,  which  were  those  of  the  mind 
rather  than  the  eye,  his  physical  senses  were  made  con- 
scious of  the  flight  of  some  great  bird  whose  wings  he  heard,  as 
they  wheeled  about  him  in  slow  gyrations,  gradually  ceasing,  as 
the  heavy  frame  settled  down  upon  the  bough  of  the  tree  just 
over  him,  whence  he  heard  the  great  wings  flapping,  the  sound 
soon  followed  by  a  piercing  scream,  which  seemed  the  utterance 
of  a  savage  voice  of  exultation — that  of  the  vulture  already  in 
possession  of  his  prey.  And  with  a  natural  instinct,  the  knight 
threw  up  his  arms,  and  waved  his  hand  feebly  aloft,  as  if  to  scare 
away  the  obscene  and  voracious  cormorant.  There  was  a  mo- 
mentary creeping  of  his  flesh  in  horror,  as  he  reflected  upon  the 
hour — not  long  to  be  delayed — when  the  winged  savage  would 
fasten  upon  his  heart,  and  when  he  should  not  possess  the  power 
to  struggle  against  his  blood-seeking  beak.  But  the  lingering 
thought  still  strove  to  reconcile  him  to  a  probability,  however 
terrible,  which  yet  promised  him  release  from  the  mortifying 
consciousness  of  the  moral  doom  which  his  life  had  received — 
the  shame,  dishonor,  and  humiliation  of  his  present  situation. 

The  strife  of  thought  and  consciousness,  though  but  for  a  single 
moment,  in  such  a  condition  as  that  in  which  he  lay,  was  itself  a 
long  eternity  of  torture.  It  was  not  to  be  endured  for  a  longer 
period  with  mortal  consciousness;  and  insensibility  soon  came 
to  the  relief  of  a  misery  which  human  strength  found  it  impossi- 
ble to  sustain.  Thought  left  him,  and  murmuring  insane  things, 
Philip  de  Vasconselos  sunk  at  length  prostrate,  and  in  utter 
senselessness,  at  the  foot  of  the  tree. 

And  the  great  bird  dropped  heavily  beside  him  from  the 
bough,  and  walked  about  him,  and  stood  with  gradually  shutting 
and  unclosing  wings  above  his  head,  as  if  fanning  him  into  deeper 
slumbers.  But  suddenly  he  strode  away,  and  lifted  himself 
lightly  again  into  the  tree,  as  he  heard  a  child-like  cry  in  the 
thicket.  A  moment  after,  a  stealthy  cat-like  tread  was  to  be 
heard  upon  the  leaves ;  and  soon  a  long  gaunt  form,  beautifully 
spotted,  stole  forth,  and  approached  the  unconscious  cavalier. 
20 


458  VASCOXSELOS. 

And  the  wild  savage  of  the  woods, — the  most  savage,  perhaps, 
in  all  the  forests  of  America,  the  panther,  encircled  the  sleeping 
man;  and  he  stooped  his  nose  to  the  unconscious  ears;  and  there 
was  a  faint  murmur  of  speech  from  the  lips  of  the  knight ;  and 
once  more  the  panther  retired  into  his  thicket,  and  the  great 
vulture  again  dropped  from  the  tree-top  to  the  ground.  And  he, 
too,  encircled  the  sleeper.  And  once  more  he  spread  his  great 
wings  above  his  head,  and  he  fanned  slowly  the  drowsy  air  about 
him :  then  he  sounded  a  fierce  wild  note — a  great  shriek  through 
the  forest — and  the  sleeper  stirred  slightly  with  a  lifted  arm ; 
and  the  vulture  resumed  the  fanning  with  his  wings.  But  soon 
another  shriek  from  the  depths  of  the  night  was  heard  in  answer 
to  the  signal  of  the  watchful  bird ;  and  another  followed  after  it. 
And  ere  many  moments  there  was  a  family  group  of  the  ra ven- 
ous birds  about  their  victim,  and  each  spread  forth  his  wings, 
beating  slowly  the  drowsy  atmosphere,  and  drawing  nigher  mo- 
mently until  they  stood  about  the  head  and  breast  of  the  uncon- 
scious knight,  like  so  many  hooded  priests  about  the  corse  of 
a  brother.  And  still  it  seemed  as  if  the  knight  were  not  uncon- 
scious, though  unable.  A  murmur  broke  from  his  lips,  and  ever 
and  anon  his  arm  was  thrown  up  spasmodically,  but  only  to  fall 
supine  upon  the  earth  beside  him. 

Again  was  the  child-like  cry  heard  in  the  forest,  and  the  savage 
panther  once  more  issued  from  its  depths,  stealthily  as  the  cat, 
passing  along  timorously  beside  the  edge  of  the  wood,  and  pur- 
suing a  circling  course  towards  his  victim  ;  and  this  time  he  came 
not  alone.  He  was  accompanied  by  his  more  savage  mate,  fol- 
lowed by  her  cubs,  and  they  drew  near,  whining  as  they  did  so, 
like  kittens  that  are  beckoned  to  their  food.  The  obscene  birds 
angrily  flapped  their  wings  and  shrieked  at  their  approach  ;  but 
still  retreated.,  and  once  more  lifted  themselves  upon  slow 
pinions  to  the  trees  above,  where  they  looked  down,  watching 
the  common  prey,  and  waiting  for  their  moment  with  impa- 
tience. 

Now,  could  we  see  clearly  the  condition  of  the  exhausted 
cavalier,  we  should  behold  him  covered  with  a  cold  and  clammy 
sweat,  the  proof  that  there  was  still  a  lurking  consciousness,  a 
faculty  of  life,  which,  though  lacking  every  essential  capacity  for 
struggle  and  defence,  was  yet  not  wanting  in  the  acutest  sensi- 
bilities of  horror.  Again  was  there  a  feeble  murmur  of  speech 
from  his  pallid  lips,  and  again  were  his  nerveless  arms  stirred,  but 
this  time  unlifted,  as  if  striving  to  defy  or  to  drive  away  the  assail- 
ant. 

He  was  not  thus  to  be  expelled.     Heedless  of  the   murmur. 


THE   PANTHER.  459 

heedless  of  the  moving  arms,  the  savage  dam,  crying  to  her  cubs, 
planted  her  stealthy  foot  firmly  upon  the  bosom  of  the  victim. 
The  male  panther,  meanwhile,  stood  above  his  head,  watchful  of 
every  movement,  and  ready  to  rend  with  fierce  teeth  and  talons, 
at  the  first  shows  of  life  or  struggle.  And  the  cold  sweat  breaks 
in  great  drops  from  brow  and  bosom  of  the  knight,  and  his  eyes 
open,  and  he  shouts, — or  strives  to  shout,  but  how  feebly ! — and 
his  arm  strikes  out  wildly,  but  with  the  most  child-like  feeble- 
ness ;  and  on  the  instant  the  grim  savage  who  stands  above  his 
head,  leaps  terribly  upon  his  breast.  And  the  eyes  of  the  knight 
are  now  widely  open,  and  he  sees  and  feels,  but  he  has  no 
strength,  no  hope  !  He  murmurs  a  prayer  to  Heaven,  and  his 
eyes  close  upon  the  rest !  He  resigns  himself  to  the  fate  which 
he  can  no  longer  oppose,  and  from  which  he  sees  no  means  of 
escape.  Not  that  he  desires  escape  from  death.  It  is  the  animal 
instinct  only  that  would  struggle  now,  and  for  this  the  animal  is 
incapable.  It  is  the  manner  of  the  death  only  from  which  the 
mind  revolts,  and  the  mind  rapidly  lapses  into  trance.  In  his 
latest  consciousness  he  hears  the  sharp,  shrill  cry  of  the  gigantic 
and  savage  beast  upon  his  breast. 

He  little  dreams  that  the  cry  is  one  of  annoyance  and  fear-, 
and  not  of  triumph.  Suddenly  the  vultures  scream  from  the 
tree,  and  the  beasts  cry  angrily  beneath  it.  They  are  startled 
from  their  prey.  The  woods  gleam  with  sudden  lights,  that  flash 
offensively  in  the  eyes  of  the  midnight  prowlers  of  the  jungle. 
The  great  natural  alleys  of  the  forests  echo  with  cheerful  voices. 
The  lights  dart  from  side  to  side ;  they  are  torches  borne  by 
troops  of  the  red  men  that  gather  at  the  summons  of  a  group 
that  now  approach,  armed  with  flaming  brands  also,  towards  the 
spot  where  the  Portuguese  cavalier  lies  at  length  unconscious. 
The  beasts  growl  and  whine,  fiercely  glaring  upon  the  backward 
path,  as  they  retire  from  before  the  gleaming  torches.  Blazing 
brands  are  flung  at  them  by  the  red  men,  to  hurry  them  in  flight, 
and  they  slink  away  from  the  victim  whom  they  were  just  about 
to  rend.  The  vultures  in  turn  lift  their  vans  and  sail  off"  to  higher 
trees  of  the  forest.  There  they  sit,  brooding  sullenly  on  what 
they  see.  So  the  panthers,  with  their  savage  young,  disappointed 
of  their  feast,  lurk  angrily  upon  the  edge  of  the  dark  jungle  in 
which  they  make  their  abode.  They  still  lurk,  watchful,  hopeful 
of  their  victim ;  and  woe  to  the  Indian,  particularly  if  a  woman, 
should  he  or  she  wander  too  nigh  the  spot  where  he  crouches,  and 
neglects  to  wave  before  the  path  the  brand  of  fire  which  offends 
his  eyes ! 

In  place  of  obscene  bird  and  savage  beast,  groups  of  the  red 


460  VASCONSELOS. 

men  surround  the  prostrate  knight.  In  the  midst,  bent  over 
him  with  solicitous  care  and  passionate  affection,  kneels  a  young 
and  beautiful  woman  of  the  dusky  race.  Her  cares  revive  him. 
He  opens  his  eyes  to  see,  by  the  light  of  the  blazing  torches,  the 
fond  and  sweet  features  of  Co§alla,  the  Princess  of  Cafachiqui. 

"  He  lives !  His  eyes  open  to  Cogalla  !  Oh  !  Philip,  thou 
shalt  be  mine  now,  and  forever,  and  a  great  chief  among  my 
people !  " 

He  swoons  again,  but  he  is  in  fond  and  faithful  keeping. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

"Faithful,  she  flies,  in  search  of  him  she  loves, 
But  droops  at  last !     Ah  !  hapless,  that  the  soul 
Finds  no  sufficient  succor  from  the  frame, 
T'  achieve  the  wondrous  virtue  that  it  wills  !" 

OLD  PLAT. 

OLIVIA  DE  ALVARO — or,  as  we  shall  continue  to  describe  her  in 
her  assumed  character  and  sex — Juan,  the  Page  of  Vasconselos  ; 
the  deed  done  which  avenged  the  wrongs  of  herself  and  lover 
upon  one,  at  least,  and  the  worst  of  their  enemies ;  fled  upon  her 
fiery  steed,  with  blood  more  fiery  and  wild,  bounding  madly  in 
her  own  bosom.  She  drove  the  rowel  into  the  eager  destrier,  un- 
witting what  she  did  or  where  she  flew.  For  a  time,  her  pro- 
gress was  the  work  of  madness.  Certainly,  she  gave  herself  no 
single  moment  of  thought.  She  obeyed  an  impulse — an  instinct. 
She  made  no  moment's  pause,  she  asked  herself  no  single  ques- 
tion. It  mattered  not  to  her,  in  that  fearful  hour,  with  her  hands 
dyed  deeply  in  kindred  blood,  and  thick  billows  of  the  same  red 
sea,  seeming  to  flow  in  upon  her  throbbing  brain,  in  what  direc- 
tion she  flew,  or  what  fate  awaited  her.  There  was  a  power, 
seemingly  beyond,  if  not  foreign  to  her  own-,  which  drove  her 
forward  recklessly.  The  passions  held  the  reins.  She  followed 
as  they  bade.  The  horse  flew  beneath  her,  yet  it  seemed  as  if  she 
would  have  flown  beyond  him.  His  speed  was  nothing  to  the 
wild  and  headlong  flight  of  her  moods.  She  was  scarcely  con- 
scious of  his  movements.  On,  on — no  matter  whither — she 
goads  him  terribly  forward — and  he  snorts  as  he  bounds  away, 
and  the  thick  flakes  of  foam  gather  about  his  mouth,  and  the 
white  streaks  rise  upon  his  flanks,  and  yet  the  rowel  rakes  and 
tears  his  reddening  sides. 

But  the  instincts  of  horse  and  rider  are  equally  true.  Juan 
•knew  the  general  routes  of  the  army.  In  forest  countries,  the 
military  traces  are  few  and  soon  denned.  The  tread  of  a  corps 
of  horse  or  foot  through  the  woods  soon  makes  itself  percep- 
tible. The  horse  readily  detects  the  beaten  pathways  of  his  fel- 
lows. Our  page,  besides,  had  been  previously  advised  of  the 
route  of  De  Soto.  He  knew  from  the  taunts  of  Don  Balthazar, 
that  Vasconselos  had  been  summoned  to  camp, —  that  it  was  there 
he  had  been  dishonored — and  left; — and  beyond  this  he  desired 
uo  more  knowledge  to  give  him  a  general  notion  of  the  route  he 

(461) 


462  VASCONSELOS. 

should  pursue.  He  had  become  skilled,  from  the  sinuous  pro- 
gress which  he  had  made  with  the  army.  He  had  gradually — 
perhaps  without  his  own  consciousness — acquired  all  those  gene- 
ral laws  of  travel  which  the  wayfarer  in  the  great  forests  can 
hardly  forbear  to  learn.  But  to  these  he  made  no  reference  in 
the  present  progress.  His  lessons  came  to  him  through  his  im- 
pulses. They  served  him  as  instincts.  In  the  ordinary  processes 
of  thought  and  induction,  he  certainly  did  not  once  indulge 
during  the  long,  wild,  but  well-directed  flight,  in  which  we  are  to 
trace  his  course. 

He  dashed  headlong  through  the  village  of  Chiaha,  where  the 
command  of  Don  Balthazar  was  still  quartered.  Little  did  his 
cavaliers  dream  of  the  bloody  fate  of  their  superior.  The  fu- 
gitive was  challenged  by  the  sentry  as  he  entered  one  of  the 
sylvan  avenues,  and  again  challenged  as  he  hurried  through  the 
opposite  end  into  the  wilderness  again.  He  heard  not  the  de- 
mand— he  made  no  answer  to  the  summons,  and  the  matchlock 
was  emptied  at  him  as  he  flew,  and  he  knew  not  that  he  had 
escaped  any  danger.  The  great  thickets  once  more  receive  him 
with  such  shelter  as  they  afford.  The  dim  lights  of  heaven  suf- 
fice for  the  steed,  but  he  sees  nothing,  nor  is  he  conscious  of 
any  lack  of  light.  If  he  does  not  reason,  he  is  yet  not  unen- 
lightened by  aspects  that  sufficiently  fill  his  mind.  Even  as  he 
speeds,  he  sees,  still  receding  as  he  approaches,  yet  still  con- 
spicuously distinct  before  his  eyes,  the  great  encampment  of  De 
Soto — the  amphitheatre  of  trees  and  tents,  and  grouped  soldiers 
surrounding  and  grim  warriors  presiding  in  judgment,  and  a  cruel 
executioner  with  bloody  axe  prominent  overall,  and  in  the  midst 
a  noble  form,  about  to  sink ! — and  he  cries  hoarsely  as  he  spurs 
the  steed — hoarsely  and  feebly, — his  voice  subsiding  to  a  whis- 
per— 

"  But  one  moment,  Philip — but  one  moment — and  I  am  with 
thee.  With  thee,  Philip!  with  thee !  To  die  with  thee,  Philip — 
to  die  for  thee  !  One  moment,  Philip— one  moment — one! — " 

And  at  each  period  of  pause,— when  the  steed  stopped  to  pant, 
— or,  with  nose  to  the  ground,  to  scent,  or  to  feel,  his  way — such 
would  be  the  apostrophe.  Then  the  dark  or  bloody  aspects  would 
seem  to  rise  more  conspicuously  and  urgently  before  the  gaxr  of 
the  fugitive — the  arrested  motion  of  the  steed  making  him  feel 
that  the  delay  was  dangerous — that  the  event  was  in  progress 
which  he  alone  could  arrest — that  not  a  moment  was  to  be  iu.st ! 
and  this  was  all  his  thought!  Then  it  was  that  the  lingering 
beast  would  be  made  anew  to  feel  the  severe  inflictions  of  the 
rowel, — and,  snorting  with  terror  to  plunge  forward  with  his  bur- 


THE   MAD  FLIGHT.  463 

den — fortunately  a  light  one — resuming  a  flight  which,  for  five 
hours,  had  known  no  cessation.  In  this  flight  the  rider  had  no 
terrors — no  consciousness  of  any  danger.  The  beast  had  many. 
Sometimes  he  shyed  from  the  track,  while  every  limb  shook  with 
emotion.  His  keen  scent  had  caught  the  wind  borne  to  him  from 
the  lairs  of  the  wolf  and  panther.  They,  too,  might  have  been 
upon  his  track ;  doubtless  were, — but  that  his  flight  had  been  so  fast 
and  far,  arid  that  he  seemed  to  their  eyes  to  carry  on  his  back 
a  wild  terror,  with  eyes  of  madness,  much  more  fearful  than  their 
own.  Of  such  as  these  the  fugitive  never  thought.  But,  when 
the  steed  swerved  aside,  he  irked  him  with  spur  or  dagger, — in- 
dignant— crying  out  in  shrillest  tones — "  Beast !  we  have  not  a 
moment  to  lose.  See  you  not  they  hasten  ! — ah !  Philip,  but  a 
moment  more  !  But  a  moment !" 

And  with  every  word  there  was  rowel  stroke,  or  dagger 
thrust,  till  the  flanks  and  neck  of  the  steed  were  clammy  with 
the  red  blood  oozing  forth. 

And  while  the  eyes  of  the  rider  stared  out,  dilating,  wild  and 
red,  into  the  infinite  space  and  vacancy — filled  only  with  con- 
fused and  dreadful  aspects  to  his  gaze — the  day  suddenly  opened 
.the  great  portals  of  the  world,  and  the  steed  went  forward  with 
more  confidence ;  but  Juan  saw  not  a  whit  more  than  had  been 
quite  as  apparent  to  him  all  the  night.  Nay,  he  saw  less,  for 
night  and  darkness,  and  the  solitude,  had  been  favorable  to  the 
creation  of  such  illusions  as  had  occupied  his  mind,  and  the  glare 
of  day,  and  the  sounds  and  sights  of  waking  and  creeping  things, 
did  somewhat  conflict  with  the  mental  power  to  create  and  make 
its  own  individual  impressions. 

It  was  a  dreadful  ride,  like  that  of  Leonora  and  the  Fiend 
Lover,  in  the  weird  and  fantastic  legend  of  Burger.  And,  if  the 
dead  lover  accompanied  not  our  fugitive,  there  were  yet  terrible 
aspects  that  rode  beside,  and  fearful  cries  followed  on  the  wind, 
while  ever  and  anon  the  voice  of  Don  Balthazar  thrilled  in  the 
ears  of  the  page,  crying,  "  Back,  you  are  mine !  You  are  too 
late !" 

Then  would  the  fugitive  set  his  teeth  closely  together,  and 
clutch  his  dagger  with  determined  gripe,  and  hiss  through  his 
shut  lips — "  What !  you  have  not  had  enough?  You  would  taste 
again,  would  you !" 

And  so  muttering,  he  would  behold  the  amphitheatre  once 
more,  wherein  De  Soto's  knights  and  soldiers  environed  the  noble 
victim ;  and  so  seeing,  the  boy  would  set  on,  with  driving  spur 
anew,  repeating  his  hoarse  whisper  in  his  throat  the  while — "But 


464:  VASCONSELOS. 

a  moment,  Philip — but  a  moment !  and  I  will  be  with  thee  and 
die  with  thee !" 

The  day  dawned,  and  the  horse  sped  over  a  beaten  track. 
He  was  in  the  very  route  pursued  the  day  before,  when  Don 
Balthazar  returned  triumphant  after  the  degradation  of  his  ene- 
my— returned,  as  he  fancied,  to  delights,  and  the  safe  renewal  of 
criminal  but  intoxicating  pleasures,  never  once  dreaming  that 
Fate  stood  with  open  arms  welcoming  him  to  the  bloodiest  em- 
brace. 

The  steed  of  our  page  felt  himself  sure  at  every  step.  The 
track  was  readily  apparent.  He  went  forward  more  confidently 
and  more  cheerfully,  but  with  less  rapidity,  for  now  it  was  that 
the  rider  began  to  feel  the  gradual  exhaustion  of  that  strength 
which  had  been  too  severely  taxed  by  such  a  progress.  The 
page  was  no  longer  conscious  of  the  diminished  speed  of  the  ani- 
mal. His  own  growing  feebleness  reconciled  him  to  the  more 
sluggish  pace  of  the  beast.  But  ever  and  anon  he  would  start 
out  of  his  stupor  with  a  sort  of  cry,  and  using  the  rowel,  wcnild 
expostulate — "  Would  you  stop  now,  beast,  when  we  are  nigh 
the  spot?  What,  do  you  not  hear  him  call  to  me "?  You  know  his 
voice.  Hear  !  He  says — ah  !  what  does  he  say  !  But  I  know, 
1  know.  Wait  but  a  moment,  Senor, — but  a  moment — but  a 
moment !" 

And  the  bridle  grasp  would  relax, — and  the  form  would  seem 
to  turn  in  the  saddle, — while  the  eyes  would  close  for  a  while,  to 
open  anew,  only  at  the  sudden  short  stopping  of  the  horse,  to 
graze  along  the  wayside.  Then  would  the  rider  show  a  moment's 
anger,  and  send  him  forward  anew  with  prick  of  dagger,  and  mut- 
ter as  before — the  poor  beast  submitting,  with  the  wonted  docil- 
ity of  the  well-trained  war-horse,  pursuing  meekly  the  beaten 
track  until  he  stood — coming  to  a  full  halt — on  the  very  ground 
where  De  Soto's  encampment  had  been  made. 

Then  the  page  opened  his  eyes,  and  was  about  to  smite  the 
beast  and  goad  him  forward — when  the  rude  scaffolding  which 
the  Adelantado  had  made  his  dais — on  which  had  stood  his 
Chair  of  State,  and  where  he  had  delivered  judgment — became 
suddenly  apparent  to  his  glance.  With  a  sudden  shriek  as  he 
beheld,  the  boy  stretched  out  his  hands  and  plunged  forward,  fall- 
ing heavily  upon  the  ground,  with  a  sad  murmur — 

"It  is  too  late!  too  late!" 

He  swooned  away ;  while  the  horse,  stepping  carefully  back- 
ward, wandered  off  in  search  of  water.  And.  for  an  hour,  the 
beast  wandered  thus  from  side  to  side.  He  found  streams  in  which 


THE   STEED  A  CAPTIVE.  465 

he  slaked  his  thirst.  He  found  tender  grasses  in  the  shady 
woods,  which  he  cropped  at  leisure.  And  the  day  thus  wore  on. 
The  animal  now  began  to  be  a  little  restive,  and  he  whinnied  for 
companionship,  looking  round,  from  side  to  side,  for  some  one 
to  approach,  and  strip  off'  his  furniture,  and  show  that  solicitude 
for  him  to  which  he  had  been  accustomed,  and  which  the  beast 
craves  no  less  than  his  master. 

His  whinny  made  its  way  to  other  ears  than  those  of  his  late 
rider.  The  page  still  lay  insensible,  in  the  shadow  of  a  great 
tree;  nature  thus  seeking  relief  from  the  sufferings  which  it  had 
undergone,  and  obtaining  respite  from  the  fiery  stress  of  thought 
upon  the  brain.  Soon,  a  figure  emerged  from  the  thicket,  stealth- 
ily approaching  the  spot  where  the  horse  had  again  begun  to 
feed.  The  stranger  was  one  of  the  red  men.  a  subject  of  the 
Cassique  of  Chiaha.  He  was  followed  by  two  others,  one  of  whom 
was  a  woman.  The  leader  of  the  party  made  his  way  towards 
the  steed,  observing  the  while  the  greatest  precaution.  To  the 
red  men  the  horse  was  still  an  object  of  terror.  He  had  been 
wont,  at  first,  to  confound  him  with  his  rider.  He  had  thus  per- 
fectly conceived  the  idea  of  the  ancients  of  the  East,  to  whom  we 
owe  the  classical  monster,  the  Centaur.  Disabused  by  expe- 
rience of  this  error,  he  did  not  yet  divest  the  horse  of  all  those 
powers  which  really  belonged  to  his  rider.  He  fancied  still  that 
fire  issued  from  his  nostrils.  He  did  not  doubt  that  his  teeth 
were  quite  as  fearful  as  those  of  the  tiger  or  the  wolf.  It  re- 
quired, accordingly,  no  small  degree  of  courage  to  approach  the 
monster  of  which  so  little  was  known,  and  of  whose  powers  so 
much  was  erroneously  thought.  But  one  red  man  did  approach  ; 
the  horse  seeming  so  innocent — so  gentle  and  subdued — so  quiet- 
ly grazing,  and  altogether  inviting  approach  by  the  general  do- 
cility of  his  air  and  behaviour.  The  grasp  of  the  forest  hunter 
was  at  length  fairly  laid  upon  the  bridle  of  the  steed,  and  he  was 
a  captive. 

The  red  man  laughed  out  with  delight.  He  called  his  com- 
rades to  him,  and  they  approached  with  trembling.  He  grew 
bolder  as  he  beheld  their  fears.  He  encouraged  them.  He 
stroked  the  neck  and  mane  of  the  beast,  who  seemed  grateful 
and  submissive,  and  they  all  laughed.  And  they  chattered 
among  themselves  like  parrots  ;  until  made  bolder  as  he  became 
familiar,  and  as  the  animal  continued  to  crop  the  grass,  showing 
himself  quite  passive,  the  captor  leapt  upon  his  back,  and  crept 
forward  to  the  saddle,  and  wreathed  his  hand  in  the  mane,  having 
abandoned  his  grasp  of  the  bridle,  of  the  use  of  which  he  had  no 
notion.  Pleased  with  his  elevation,  the  savage  persuaded  his 
20* 


466  VASCONSELOS. 

comrades  to  follow  him,  and  his  brother  warrior  leapt  up,  then 
the  squaw  followed,  and  as  the  horse  moved  slowly  from  side  to 
side,  cropping  the  grass,  and  seemingly  heedless  of  his  burden, 
but  still  walking,  the  simple  savages  clapped  their  hands  and 
yelled  with  delight. 

But  that  yell  awakened  the  destrier  to  new  sensations.  The 
beast  knew  that  he  was  in  the  power  of  his  enemies.  His  char- 
acter changed  on  the  instant.  His  moods,  his  passions,  were  all 
stirred  with  excitement.  He  threw  head  and  tail  aloft.  He 
shook  out  his  mane  ;  the  blood  of  the  war-horse  was  aroused  as 
with  the  shrill  summons  of  the  clarion,  and  he  dashed  away  at 
headlong  speed,  to  seek  the  spot  where  he  had  left  his  master. 
At  the  first  bound  he  shook  himself  free  of  the  squaw,  who  rolled 
away  over  his  haunches,  suffering  no  hurt  but  a  prodigious  fright, 
as  she  settled  down  in  a  heap  upon  the  earth,  hardly  knowing 
whether  she  was  dead  or  alive.  The  Indians  yelled  again  with 
sudden  terror ;  and  the  shrill  cry  increased  the  speed  of  the  ani- 
mal. Away  he  dashed  with  the  headlong  rapidity  of  a  charge. 
The  foremost  of  the  savages  clung  to  his  back  like  a  cat,  while  he 
wound  his  hands  more  firmly  within  the  animal's  mane.  The 
other  clung  to  the  body  of  his  comrade.  Then  the  animal  threw 
his  head  down,  and  both  of  them  went  over  his  neck.  They 
rolled  away,  on  opposite  sides,  quite  unhurt,  but  horribly 
alarmed.  The  steed  flew,  as  he  felt  relieved  of  his  burden,  and 
he  was  quickly  out  of  sight. 

The  two  savages  lay  for  several  minutes  upon  the  earth,  not 
daring  to  look  up  or  speak.  But  as  the  sounds  of  the  horse's 
feet  grew  more  distant,  one  of  them  rose  to  a  sitting  posture. 
He  called  to  the  other  in  under  tones.  It  required  some  thought 
and  examination  to  be  assured  of  the  fact  that  both  of  them  still 
lived,  and  that  no  bones  were  broken.  One  of  them  went  back 
for  the  squaw.  She,  too,  was  unhurt.  They  were  soon  brought 
together,  and  a  rapid  consultation  determined  them  to  pursue 
the  monster  who  had  treated  them  with  so  much  indignity. 
Bows  were  bent,  arrows  got  in  readiness,  the  stone  hatchet  was 
seized  in  sinewy  grasp,  and  the  two  warriors  went  forward — the 
woman  following  at  a  little  distance,  and  trembling  for  the  event. 

It  was  a  matter  of  course  that  the  red  men  should  fasten  in- 
stantly upon  the  fresh  track  of  the  horse,  and  follow  it  with 
unerring  certainty.  The  beast,  meanwhile,  had  made  his  way 
back  '.o  where  the  page  had  fallen,  and  when  the  pursuers  drew 
nigh  they  found  him  smelling  at  the  hands  of  his  late  rider  and 
pushing  them  with  his  nose.  The  boy  was  stirring  slightly. 
Suddenly,  the  horse  receded.  He  had  winded  the  red  men.  He 


THE   PAGE   A  CAPTIVE.  467 

dashed  backward,  and  as  he  did  so,  seizing  their  moment,  they 
both  darted  upon  the  half-awaking  Juan,  and  had  seized  him 
by  the  arms  before  he  had  become  fully  conscious.  The  rude 
assault  brought  him  back  to  consciousness.  He  strove  to  shake 
oil'  his  captors,  but  his  struggles  were  feeble  ;  his  arms  fell  use- 
lessly, unperformingly,  beside  him  ;  and  he  showed  his  submission 
by  signs.  Why  should  he  struggle  against  fate  ?  What  had  he 
to  live  for  ?  Why  should  he  dread  the  death  which  he  now 
fancied  to  be  certain  *? 

The  red  men  possessed  themselves  of  the  page's  dagger,  the 
only  weapon  which  he  carried.  With  their  stone  hatchets 
waving  in  his  sight,  they  motioned  him  to  rise.  By  signs  they 
bade  him  recover  the  horse,  which  he  did  without  effort,  but  they 
were  sufficiently  wary  not  to  suffer  him  to  mount.  The  beast 
was  led  accordingly,  and  the  boy  proceeded  with  his  captors  all 
on  foot ;  the  squaw  having  joined  them  in  compliance  with  their 
repeated  halloos. 

The  destrier  was  now  docile  enough,  following  his  master. 
The  page  feebly  led  him  on.  But  he  soon  sank  down  by  the 
way.  One  of  the  red  men  would  have  brained  him  with  his 
hatchet ;  but  the  other,  who  was  the  older,  and  the  woman,  inter- 
posed. The  latter  soon  perceived  the  boy's  exhaustion,  and 
while  one  of  the  men  went  off  in  search  of  a  spring  or  rivulet, 
the  squaw  darted  into  the  woods,  bringing  back  with  her,  after  a 
little  while,  some  leaves,  and  a  small  round  acid  fruit.  The  lat- 
ter she  squeezed  into  the  page's  mouth.  The  leaves  she  pressed 
upon  his  forehead.  Water  was  brought  in  a  leaf  shaped  like  a 
slipper,  of  which  he  drank  freely.  In  a  little  while  he  was  re- 
vived. When  he  recovered  sufficiently,  he  motioned  them  by 
signs  to  let  him  ride,  one  of  them  taking  the  bridle  within  his 
hands.  The  proposition  was  a  startling  one.  and  led  to  a  long 
discussion  among  the  captors,  which  was  finally  settled  by  the 
eldest  of  the  party,  who  seized  the  bridle  with  the  most  heroic 
air  of  self-sacrifice,  in  one  hand,  while  with  the  other,  waving 
his  stone  hatchet,  he  threatened  the  head  of  the  horse  with  sud- 
den stroke,  at  the  first  suspicious  symptom.  Juan  mounted  with 
feeble  heart  and  limbs,  indifferently,  and  only  resigned  to  the 
wishes  of  his  captors. 

And  thus  the  four  travelled  for  six  or  eight  weary  hours. 
Noon  came  and  went.  The  sun  at  length  was  faintly  smiling 
farewell  over  the  forest,  at  the  closing  of  his  pilgrimage,  when 
the  party  came  in  sight  of  the  beautiful  river,  the  Coosa,  at  the 
spot  where  it  first  acquires  an  individual  existence,  from  the 
junction  of  the  Etowah  and  the  Oostanaula. 


4:68  VASCONSELOS. 

Here  was  an  encampment  of  the  red  men.  They  could  be 
seen  in  crowds  along  the  banks  of  the  river.  But  the  eyes  of 
Juan  were  fastened  upon  a  group  that  was  gathered  beneath  a 
sort  of  canopy  upon  the  hillside.  They  slowly  approached  this 
station.  The  page's  eyes  brightened  as  he  drew  nigh.  Surely, 
it  is  Don  Philip  that  he  sees,  seated  upon  the  ground  in  front  of 
the  canopy,  while  the  red  men  wander  about  in  the  back-, 
ground.  But  the  page  doubts.  Can  it  be  that  the  savage-look- 
ing man  whom  he  sees, — woe-stricken,  with  matted  and  dishev- 
elled hair  and  beard, — is  his  noble  master — the  accomplished 
knight  of  Portugal — the  man  of  grace,  and  stature,  and  beauty ; 
of  ease  and  sweetness,  and  clear  bright  eye,  and  generous  aspect  ? 
Can  he  have  so  altered  in  so  short  a  space  ?  Juan  could  scarcely, 
believe.  But  he  had  no  conception  of  the  change  which  he  had 
himself  undergone.  With  a  cry  he  threw  himself  from  the  steed 
at  the  feet  of  the  cavalier — 

"  Oh  !  Sefior !     Oh !  Don  Philip^—" 

The  knight  looked  up  for  the  first  time  as  he  heard  the  cry. 

"  My  poor  boy,  my  poor  Juan,  is  it  thou,  indeed !  " 

And  he  took  the  boy  suddenly  to  his  embrace.  He  shrunk 
from  the  grasp :  he  trembled  like  a  leaf;  tottered,  and  would 
have  fallen  but  that  the  knight  held  him  up. 

"  God  be  praised,  Juan,  that  thou  art  again  with  me  !  I  had 
feared  that  I  should  lose  thee  forever,  my  poor  boy ;  and  surely, 
Juan,  if  there  be  any  that  I  can  now  love,  it  is  thyself." 

He  again  grasped  the  page  and  drew  him  to  his  embrace.  The 
head  of  the  boy  sank  upon  his  shoulder.  His  eye  was  bright 
with  tears.  The  head  was  relieved.  The  heart  enjoyed  a  strange 
and  sudden  sensation  of  happiness.  At  that  moment  his  ear 
caught  .the  sound  of  a  well-known  voice. 

"  Philip  ! "  said,  in  the  tenderest  tones,  the  beautiful  Cocalla, 
the  Princess  of  Cofachiqui ;  and  she  laid  her  hand  affectionately 
upon  the  shoulders  of  the  knight. 

"Philip!" 

The  word  went  like  a  dagger  to  the  heart  of  the  page.  The 
tenderness  of  tone  in  which  it  was  spoken  filled  her  soul  with 
bitterness.  There  was  an  agony  in  her  bosom,  as  sudden  and 
extreme  as  the  rapture  which  had  filled  it  but  a  moment  before, 
and,  with  the  seeming  recovery  of  all  her  strength  and  senses, 
she  withdrew  herself  from  the  embrace  of  Vasconselos,  who 
gently  released  her. 

"  Go  within,  Juan,"  said  the  knight,  pointing  him  to  the  rude 
tent  of  bushes  before  which  stood  the  canopy  of  stained  cotton  j 


JEALOUS   TEARS.  469 

'*  go  within,  boy,  and  await  me,  for  I  have  much  to  hear  from 
thee." 

With  the  big  tears  gathering  in  his  eyes  like  great  pearls  of 
the  ocean,  the  page  did  as  he  was  commanded,  having,  ere  he 
went,  beheld  Cogalla  take  her  place  by  the  side  of  the  knight, 
while  one  of  her  hands  rested  proudly  on  his  shoulder,  and  her 
large  brown  eyes  seemed  to  drink  in  rapture  while  gazing  deeply 
into  his. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

"Auf.  Say,  what's  thy  name  ? 
Thou  hast  a  grim  appearance,  and  thy  t'ace 
Bears  a  command  in?t  ;  though  thy  tackle's  torn 
Thou  show's!  a  noble  vessel.    What's  thy  name  ?" 

Coriolanui. 

MEANWHILE,  the  Spanish  army  pursued  its  progress  into  the 
ri  :b,  wild  provinces  of  the  Alabamous.  They  were  now  ap- 
p~oaching  the  territories  of  the  great  Indian  Cassique,  called  Tus- 
caluza,  or  the  Black  Warrior, — a  ruler  at  once  remarkable  for 
the  extent  of  his  sway,  his  haughty  valor,  and  his  gigantic  stature. 
He  had  heard  of  the  approaching  Spaniards,  of  their  power,  their 
wonderful  arms  and  armor,  their  strange  appearance,  and  the 
mystery  which  seemed  to  envelop  their  origin.  He  was  natu- 
rally curious  to  see  the  strangers,  and  was  too  great  a  potentate 
himself,  and  too  valiant  a  chief  to  entertain  any  apprehension  of 
their  power.  Of  their  treatment  of  his  kinswoman,  Co9alla,  he 
had  up  to  this  period  heard  nothing,  and  his  invitation,  accord- 
ingly, through  his  inferior  cassiques,  was  cordially  extended  to 
the  Spanish  commander  to  visit  him  in  the  recesses  of  his  wild 
domain.  His  chief  settlements  were  along  the  banks  of  the  river 
which  still  bears  his  name — his  territories  stretched  away  indefi- 
nitely, even  beyond  the  waters  of  the  Mississippi.  As  the  stran- 
gers drew  nigh  to  his  royal  precincts,  he  despatched  his  son  to  give 
them  special  welcome — a  youth  of  eighteen,  but  tall  like  himself, 
his  stature  far  overtopping  that  of  the  tallest  soldiers  in  the 
Spanish  army.  His  bold  and  noble  carriage  contributed,  with 
his  stature,  to  compel  the  respect  and  admiration  of  the  Adelan- 
tado  and  his  cavaliers. 

But  ere  the  arrival  of  this  youth,  as  an  ambassador,  there  was 
some  stir  in  the  Spanish  camp,  in  consequence  of  the  treatment 
which  Philip  de  Vasconselos  had  received.  The  return  of  Nuno 
de  Tobar,  and  Andres  de  Vasconselos,  led  to  warm  words,  angry 
passion,  and  finally  to  a  re-examination  of  the  affair.  If  Andres 
felt  coldly  towards  his  brother — and  no  doubt  his  conscience  had 
long  since  rebuked  him  severely  for  his  conduct,  for  which  his  boyish 
pride  would  suffer  him  to  make  no  atonement — his  feelings  of 
kindred  were  by  no  means  subdued.  Now  that  his  brother  was 
dishonored,  and  had  probably  perished  in  consequence  of  the 

470 


REVOCATION  OF  JUDGMENT.  471 

exile  and  exposure  which  followed  his  sentence,  the  better  nature 
of  the  young  man  obtained  the  ascendant,  and  he  felt  his  error  to 
its  full  extent,  and  bitterly  lamented  the  little  sympathy  which 
he  had  shown  to  a  brother  to  whom  he  was  indebted  for  the  best 
training  and  affection  of  his  early  years.  Nor  was  Nuno  de 
Tobar  less  eagerly  aroused  than  Andres  to  the  necessity  of  vindi- 
cating the  fame  of  Philip,  and,  if  possible,  of  recovering  and  re- 
storing him  to  the  army.  To  this  end  their  earnest  efforts  were 
directed.  The  woods  were  scoured  where  the  victim  had  been 
left  to  perish,  but  in  vain.  He  was  already  in  the  close  keeping 
of  the  Princess  of  Copachiqui — not  so  far,  indeed,  from  the  camp 
of  the  Spaniards — not  so  much  beyond  their  reach — hut  that,  had 
he  himself  been  willing,  he  might  have  been  found.  But  in  what 
way  could  it  be  conveyed  to  him  that  he  was  not  pursued  with 
malice,  and  that  justice  should  be  done  to  his  worth  at  last  'i  He 
might  well  question  the  motives  for  the  search  on  the  part  of 
those  from  whom  he  had  never  yet  experienced  sympathy  or 
confidence. 

Cocalla  and  her  followers  were  all  well  aware  of  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  Spanish  parties  sent  out  in  search  of  Philip — nay,  he 
himself  was  not  ignorant,  and  he  might  possibly  have  suspected 
their  better  motives,  knowing  as  he  did  that  his  brother  and 
Nuno  de  Tobar  were  at  the  head  of  these  detachments  ;  but  he 
now  no  longer  cared  to  resume  a  connection  with  the  associates 
who  had  abandoned  him,  and  with  an  expedition  whose  daily  pro- 
gresses revolted  all  his  human  and  chivalrous  sentiments.  Be- 
sides, he  had  been  inexpiably  disgraced  according  to  all  the  laws 
of  chivalry,  and  there  was  no  adequate  power  to  do  him  justice, 
and  to  restore  his  honors.  A  savage  scorn  of  all  social  relations 
took  the  place  in  his  bosom  of  the  gentler  sympathies  he  had  once 
so  loved  to  cherish.  A  fierce  mood  preyed  like  a  vulture  upon  his 
thoughts,  and  he  brooded  only  upon  revenge.  This  was  now  the 
atoning,  the  compensative  sentiment  which  he  encouraged,  and  his 
thought  was  wholly  addressed  to  the  modes  by  which  he  should 
wreak  the  full  measure  of  his  vengeance  upon  the  two  whom  he 
regarded  as  the  principals  in  his  great  disgrace,  and  the  bitter 
defeat  of  all  his  hopes  and  honor.  His  thought  by  day,  his  dream 
by  night,  found  him  ever  engaged  in  the  hot  struggle  of  the  gla- 
diator with  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro  and  the  haughty  Adelan- 
tado ;  and  he  sat  or  wandered  with  his  savage  associates,  grim 
and  silent,  following  the  progress  of  the  Spaniards  with  eye  and 
mind ;  a  Fate,  himself,  threatening  but  too  truly  the  melancholy 
doom  which  attended  upon  their  footsteps. 

It  was  with  a  gloomy  feeling  of  bitterress  and  self  reproach  that 


472  VASCONSELOS. 

Andres  de  Vasconselos  and  Nuno  de  Tobar  gave  up  the  search 
after  the  fugitive.  They  naturally  concluded  that  he  had  per- 
ished— the  victim  of  the  red  men.  But  they  addressed  them- 
selves to  the  business  of  the  inquiry  touching  the  charges  brought 
against  him,  and,  in  particular,  as  concerned  the  agency  of  Don 
Balthazar  in  the  affair.  In  respect  to  this  person,  Nuno  de  To- 
bar could  give  considerable  evidence.  The  conviction  that  Don 
Balthazar  had  been  the  vindictive  pursuer  of  his  brother  to  de- 
struction, prompted  Andres  de  Vasconselos  to  hurry  to  the  village 
of  Chiaha,  where  the  former  had  been  left  in  command,  resolved 
to  disgrace  him  by  blows,  and  force  him  to  single  combat.  He 
was  met  on  his  arrival  by  the  intelligence,  already  known  to  us, 
of  the  murder  of  the  knight,  and  of  the  flight  of  the  page  Juan — 
the  latter  being  supposed  by  some  the  assassin  ;  by  others,  the 
red  men  were  credited  with  the  achievment,  the  boy  being 
thought  their  captive. 

Andres  de  Vasconselos  was  disarmed  by  this  intelligence,  which 
had  the  further  effect  of  relieving  Hernan  de  Soto  of  much  of  the 
responsibilities  of  his  situation.  Though  bold  and  haughty  enough, 
it  was  yet  quite  too  important  to  the  safety,  not  less  than  the 
success,  of  the  Adelantado,  to  venture  to  defy  the  complaints  and 
indignation  of  some  of  his  bravest  knights.  He  now  began  to 
feel  that  he  should  need  the  very  meanest  of  his  force  to  carry 
through  the  objects  of  his  expedition,  and  in  propitiating  the  cap- 
tains who  had  interested  themselves  in  the  case  of  Philip,  the 
death  of  Don  Balthazar  afforded  a  ready  agency.  He  was,  in 
fact,  the  chief  criminal,  and  De  Soto  was  really  but  his  creature. 
Facts  were  exposed  by  Tobar,  showing  the  bitter  malice  of  Don 
Balthazar ;  and  the  very  creatures  whom  he  had  suborned  against 
the  knight  of  Portugal,  were  now  not  unwilling  to  expose  the 
influences  which  were  brought  to  bear  for  his  destruction.  De 
Soto,  after  the  farce  of  a  solemn  reconsideration  of  the  case,  was 
brought  to  revoke  his  judgment;  but  it  was  too  late  !  Philip  de 
Vasconselos  had  undergone  a  fearful  change  of  character.  He 
was  now  the  vulture  of  revenge,  hovering  in  the  rear  of  the  de- 
voted cavalcade,  waiting  his  moment  when  to  swoop  down  in 
blood  upon  the  quarry. 

Close  and  ominous  watch,  indeed,  did  he  keep  upon  the  move- 
ments of  the  Spaniards  through  the  agency  of  the  red  men  of  Co- 
fachiqui.  They  were  gathering  daily  in  numbers,  well  armed, 
and  eager  for  revenge.  They  were  joined  by  the  warriors  of 
Chiaha,  and  tacitly,  as  it  seemed,  did  they  refer  the  whole  conduct 
of  their  people  to  the  direction  of  Philip  de  Vasconselos.  In  this 
they  naturally  obeyed  the  wishes  of  the  Princess ;  but  this  influ- 


THE   FATE.  473 

ence  might  not  have  sufficed  to  confer  upon  him  this  authority, 
were  it  not  that  they  were  instinctively  impressed  by  himself,  by 
the  great  injuries  which  had  made  him  the  incarnation  of  that 
wild  revenge  which  the  red  men  so  much  love  and  honor,  and 
by  his  unquestionable  ability  as  a  commander.  He,  himself, 
.seemed  to  take  their  lead  as  a  matter  of  course.  He  neither 
asked  them  nor  himself  in  respect  to  the  matter.  He  willed,  and 
they  submitted.  He  pointed  with  his  finger  hither  or  thither,  and 
they  sped.  They  saw  his  purpose  in  his  look.  They  took  their 
directions  from  his  eye  and  hand  ;  and  there  was  that  of  the  ter- 
ribly savage  in  his  fearful  glance,  and  so  much  of  the  sublimely 
fearful  in  the  embodied  woe  which  seemed  to  speak  in  every  silent 
look  and  gesture,  that  to  submit  and  obey  was  the  voluntary  im- 
pulse of  all  who  looked  upon  the  noble  outlaw. 

The  one  purpose  which  occupied  his  mind,  sufficed  to  concen- 
trate all  his  faculties.  The  Spaniards  now  began  daily  to  expe- 
rience the  influence  of  a  will  and  a  power  which  threatened  them 
with  the  greatest  dangers,  the  more  formidable,  as  it  was  still  im- 
possible to  conjecture  what  shape  the  danger  was  to  take,  or  when 
and  where  the  blow  was  to  fall.  An  ominous  gloom  seemed  to 
hang  upon  their  hearts.  Superstitious  apprehensions  haunted 
their  souls — a  cloud  seemed  to  hang  upon  their  pathway,  in  no 
degree  relieved  by  the  courteous  invitations  of  the  great  cassique, 
Tuscaluza.  Weariness,  exhaustion,  daily  toil  and  march,  and 
continued  disappointments,  no  doubt  combined  to  render  them 
especially  sensible  to  such  fears  and  doubts.  But  there  were 
external  evidences  daily  offered  them  which  had  their  effect,  also, 
in  compelling  and  arousing  their  superstitious  fears.  The  red 
men  seemed  to  have  altered  their  whole  policy.  They  hovered 
about  the  advancing  army,  but  without  coming  to  blows.  They 
no  longer  rushed  out  boldly  from  beneath  the  forest  trees,  in 
groups,  or  single  men,  challenging  the  invader  to  the  crossing  of 
the  spears.  But  if  they  did  not  fight,  they  did  not  fly.  There,  in 
front,  and  flank,  and  rear,  they  might  be  seen  to  hover  like  so 
many  threatening  clouds,  retiring  into  safety  when  approached, — 
not  to  be  overtaken, — but  still  giving  proofs  that  they  were  unre- 
laxing  in  that  haunting  watch  and  pursuit  which  they  had  begun 
from  the  moment  when  Vasconselos  took  command.  It  may  be 
that  De  Soto  and  others  suspected  his  presence  and  authority 
among  the  red  men,  and  that  a  gloomy  prescience,  and  vague 
terrors,  were  the  result  of  this  suspicion.  To  these  feelings,  each 
day  added  large  increase.  The  Spaniards  now  longed  for  the 
strife  ;  they  felt  how  much  easier  and  more  grateful  it  would  be 
to  bring  this  annoyance  to  prompt  and  desperate  issue,  which  vexed 


474  .  VASCO'S'SELOS. 

their  pride  and  perpetually  troubled  their  securities.  But  they 
strove  for  this  in  vain.  Many  were  the  efforts  which  they  made 
to  beguile  the  savages  to  battle, — to  ensnare  them  in  ambush. — 
to  run  them  down  with  their  mounted  men;  but  the  vigilant 
generalship  of  the  Portuguese  cavalier  held  them  in  close  hands, 
and  they  hung  about  the  wearied  Spaniards  like  clouds  of  \ora- 
c-ious  birds,  sufficiently  nigh  to  seize  their  prey  when  occasion 
offered,  but  at  a  safe  distance  from  any  danger.  Daily  they  suc- 
ceeded in  picking  up  some  victim  from  the  ranks  of  the  invader. 
Not  a  loiterer  escaped  the  bow-shaft  or  the  macana.  The 
straggler  invariably  perished — pierced  with  sharp  arrows,  or 
brained  with  the  heavy  hatchet  of  stone.  It  was  death  to  turn 
aside  into  the  covert;  it  was  fatal  to  charge  beyond  the  ranks 
which  offered  immediate  support.  One  newly  adopted  policy 
of  the  red  men  seemed  particularly  ominous  to  the  Spaniards. 
They  now  addressed  their  shafts  to  the  breasts  of  the  horses, 
rather  than  the  cavaliers,  and  every  now  and  then  some  fine 
steed  fell  a  victim  under  the  unexpected  arrow,  despatched  from 
unsuspected  coverts  where  the  assailants  found  impenetrable 
shelter. 

Thus  haunted,  thus  troubled  with  evil  omens,  the  Spanish  army 
made  its  way  into  the  thickly  settled  countries  of  the  Alabamous. 
This  people,  under  the  sway  of  Tuscaluza,  were  probably  com- 
posed of  the  Choctaws,  Chickasaws,  and  the  remnants  of  other 
tribes.  They  were  numerous,  in  comparison  with  the  other 
nations  of  the  red  men,  and  were  as  fearless  and  practised  in 
warfare  as  they  were  numerous.  De  Soto.  in  entering  their 
great  towns  and  villages,  did  so  with  unusual  precaution.  *  His 
mind  was  impressed  evidently  with  a  far  greater  sense  of  the  re- 
sponsibilities and  difficulties  of  his  situation  than  had  ever  been  the 
case  before.  His  apprehensions  and  disquiet  were  greatly  in- 
creased at  this  period  by  a  new  evil ;  an  epidemic  appeared 
among  his  troops,  which  was  fatal  to  many.  They  were  seized 
with  a  low  fever,  which  seemed  to  prostrate  them  instantly.  At 
the  end  of  a  very  few  days  they  perished ;  the  skin,  even  before 
death,  becoming  of  a  discolored  and  greenish  hue,  and  their  bodies 
emitting  a  fetid  odor.  A  terrible  fear  possessed  the  army,  that 
jhey  were-  poisoned — that  the  subtle  savages  had  mixed  their 
maize,  or  the  waters  of  the  streams,  with  some  vegetable  poison 
of  great  potency.  We  may  imagine  the  terror  that  seized  upon 
all  hearts  from  a  conjecture  so  full  of  horror.  Some  of  their 
Tamenes,  however,  suggested  a  native  remedy  for  the  disease, 
which  was  probably  due  rather  to  exhaustion  and  unsatisfactory 
food.  A  ley,  made  from  the  ashes  of  a  certain  herb,  and 


THE   FATE   WITH   TUSCALUZA. 

mingled  with  their  food  instead  of  salt — of  which  they  had  none 
— was  1'ound  to  afford  security  against  attack.  But  many  of 
tin- m  perished  of  the  disorder  before  the  remedy  was  made 
known. 

Tuscaluza  met  De  Soto  at  one  of  his  villages,  at  some  distance 
from  his  capital  city.  He  probably  did  not  design  that  the 
Spaniards  should  penetrate  to  that  place.  But  he  did  not  know 
the  character  of  the  invaders.  The  haughty  chieftain  welcomed  the 
Adelantado  in  a  truly  royal  manner,  with  great  show  of  forest 
state,  and  a  dignity  which  might  have  furnished  a  model  to  the 
noblest  sovereign  of  Christendom.  His  immense  stature,  erect 
carriage,  haughty  demeanor,  perfect  composure,  insensibility  to 
surprise  of  any  kind,  had  the  effect  of  awing  the  Spaniards  into 
something  like  reverence,  for  a  season.  The  Adelantado  pre- 
sented him  with  a  dress  of  scarlet,  and  with  a  flowing  mantle  of 
the  same  material.  These  he  wore  with  a  natural  grace  which 
showed  him  superior  to  the  efforts  of  the  artist.  With  his  own 
towering  plumes,  he  became  the  crowning  and  central  figure,  of 
right,  amid  the  grand  assemblage  of  native  chieftains  and  steel- 
clad  warriors  by  whom  he  was  surrounded.  The  Adelantado 
added  to  his  gifts  that  of  a  horse  also ;  though  it  was  with  great 
difficulty  that  a  beast  was  found  sufficiently  powerful  to  endure 
the  weight  of  so  colossal  a  warrior. 

The  courtesy  of  De  Soto,  his  gifts  and  attentions  were  not 
unpleasing  to  the  haughty  Cassique,  and  he  cheerfully  accom- 
panied them  in  a  march  of  three  days,  to  one  of  his  first-class 
villages,  called  after  himself,  Tuscaluza.  This  village  stood  upon 
a  peninsula  of  the  Alabama  River.  The  river  was  crossed  with- 
out difficulty,  and  the  army  encamped  for  the  night  in  a  beautiful 
valley,  about  a  league  beyond  the  place  of  passage.  There  was 
feasting  and  great  state  for  some  hours  in  the  Spanish  camp,  and 
Tuscaluza  was  a  guest  at  supper  with  the  Adelantado.  But 
•when  he  retired,  it  was  without  the  precincts  of  the  camp,  and 
Spaniards,  though  on  the  watch  to  discover  his  place  of  re- 
fr'iit  for  the  night,  tailed  to  trace  his  progress  through  the  wild 
forests  tKfbugh  which,  with  his  attendants,  he  made  his  easy 
way.  But  there  were  other  watchers  more  successful,  and  when 
Tuscaluza  entered  his  sylvan  lodge,  but  two  miles  from  the 
Spanish  camp,  he  found  the  beautiful  Princess  Cocalla,  his 
own  niece,  awaiting  him  in  the  lodge ;  and  seated  upon  a  pile  of 
bearskin-,  a  stern,  silent,  savage-looking  man,  one  of  the  pale- 
faced  warriors,  in  whose  grim  aspect  we  recognize  the  once 
gentle,  graceful,  and  courtly  knight  of  Portugal, 

Cocalla  threw  herself  upon  the  neck  of  Tuscaluza,  and  was 


476  VASCONSELOS. 

welcomed  with  such  a  degree  of  fondness  as  was  consistent  with 
the  pride  and  power  of  so  haughty  a  monarch.  He  received  her 
with  tenderness  even,  and  she  wept  sweet  tears  upon  the  breast 
of  him  who  had  been  the  well-beloved  brother  of  her  mother. 
What  fool  was  it  who  first  taught  that  the  red  men  lacked  the 
sensibilities  of  humanity  1 

But  we  must  defer  our  further  report  to  another  chapter, 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

"  Up,  sword,  and  know  thou  a  more  horrid  hent."  Hamlet. 

THE  gigantic  and  haughty  sovereign  of  the  Alabamous  was 
sensibly  awed  by  the  stern  aspect  which  encountered  him,  when 
he  turned  from  the  beautiful  Cocalla  to  welcome  to  his  abode  the 
outlawed  knight  of  Portugal.  Stern  self-possession,  calm  inflex- 
ible endurance — as  significant  of  the  big  heart  and  the  unyielding 
courage — are  among  the  master  virtues  of  the  red  men.  In  brief 
words,  Cogalla  had  conveyed  to  her  uncle  the  simple  outline  of 
the  fortunes  of  Vasconselos,  as  well  as  her  own,  since  she  had 
first  come  to  a  knowledge  of  the  Spaniards.  Tuscaluza  had  heard 
enough  to  compel  his  respect  for  the  knight,  and  to  secure  his 
gratitude  and  confidence  in  consideration  of  what  he  had  done  for 
the  Princess.  But  when  he  looked  on  Philip,  he  saw  before  him 
no  ordinary  warrior.  He  felt  himself  in  the  presence  of  a  Fate 
— of  a  terror  and  a  power,  the  resources  and  purpose  of  which 
he  could  instantly  conjecture  from  the  mixed  aspect  of  concen- 
trated woe  and  vengeance  which  confronted  him.  He  welcomed 
the  knight,  but  the  latter  had  no  answer ;  and  the  savage  prince, 
who  seemed  at  once  to  comprehend  the  nature  and  the  necessity 
of  the  cavalier,  sate  quietly  beside  him  upon  the  bear  skins,  and 
yielded  himself  composedly,  while  Cocalla  proceeded  to  unfold 
the  details  of  that  long  history  which  she  had  hitherto  rendered 
him  in  the  briefest  possible  manner. 

To  one  who  should  regard  only  the  outer  aspects  of  the  red 
man,  the  features  of  Tuscaluza  betrayed  not  the  slightest  secret 
of  the  impression  which  this  narrative  made  upon  his  soul.  But 
the  pride,  anger,  fierce  hatred,  and  eager  impulse  to  war,  were 
not  the  less  active  in  his  bosom,  because  there  were  no  external 
signs  of  their  presence.  At  the  close  of  the  story,  he  simply  rose 
and  threw  off  the  scarlet  robes  with  which  De  Soto  had  decorated 
his  person,  cast  them  contemptuously  upon  the  earthen  floor  of 
his  cabin,  and,  as  he  paced  the  apartment  to  and  fro,  he  walked 
over  the  rich  silks  unheedingly.  Then,  after  a  brief  interval,  he 
stretched  his  hand  out  to  Vasconselos.  The  latter  took  it  with- 
out a  word,  and  rose.  He  laid  his  own  hand  upon  his  breast, 
and  said,  in  the  Choetaw  dialect : — 

"  Philip  is  a  warrior.     He  will  fight  the  battles  of  the  great 

(477) 


478  VASCONSELOS. 

Tuscaluza.  Will  the  Cassique  say  to  his  warriors — Go !  follow 
Philip,  that  we  may  drive  the  Spaniards  to  their  homes  beyond 
the  sea  ?" 

"  That  we  rnay  drive  them  into  the  sea !"  was  the  fierce  re- 
sponse, as  the  savage  monarch  again  eagerly  grasped  the  hand  of 
the  knight.  He  added — "  Philip  shall  be  a  great  chief  of  the  Al 
abamous.  He  shall  have  many  warriors  to  go  with  him  to  battle. 
He  shall  show  to  the  Black  warrior  of  the  Alabamous  how  we 
may  best  feed  on  these  Spaniards,  and  capture  the  mighty  beasts 
upon  which  they  ride." 

"  It  shall  be  done.  Let  Philip  be  clad  in  the  war-paint  of  the 
Alabamous,  and  bring  him  garments  for  a  chief  of  the  red  men." 

When  Philip  had  spoken  these  words,  Coc,alla  threw  her  arms 
about  his  neck.  He  did  not  return  her  caresses,  but  he  looked 
into  her  face  with  a  tender  sadness,  which  for  a  moment  smoothed 
the  terrible  expression  from  his  visage.  At  this  moment  the 
page  Juan  entered  the  apartment.  Cogalla  caught  his  glance, 
and  instantly  withdrew  her  arms  from  the  neck  of  Vasconselos. 
How  subtle  are  the  feminine  instincts.  The  forest  Princess 
seemed  to  know  that  Juan  looked  not  favorably  upon  the  pas- 
sion which  she  felt  for  Philip.  The  page,  meanwhile,  recoiled 
from  the  glance  of  Tuscaluza,  who,  as  he  regarded  the  intruder, 
stopped  in  his  walk,  exclaiming — "  Hah !" 

Cogalla  calmly  bade  the  page  enter,  and  explained  his  relation 
with  ^Vasconselos. 

"  It  is  good,"  replied  the  Cassique,  resuming  his  walk.  "  It  is 
good  ;  but  let  him  go,  till  one  shall  come  to  him  and  say,  '  thy 
master  hath  use  for  thee,'  and  his  finger  conveyed  the  same  di- 
rections to  the  page  himself.  With  a  sad,  longing  look  towards 
Philip — who  did  not  seem  to  heed  him,  or,  indeed,  to  heed  any- 
thing— Juan  turned  away,  and  left  the  hovel. 

It  was  then  that  Tuscaluza  brought  forth  sundry  rich  garments 
of  native  furs  and  cotton,  the  latter  stained  brightly  with  yellow, 
the  color  of  the  nation,  and  crossed  with  bars  of  blue.  The  ban- 
ner of  Tuscaluza  was  thus  designed,  the  bars  of  blue  being  three 
in  number.  These  were  presented  to  Philip,  who  received  them 
as  a  matter  of  course,  with  something  of  indifference  in  his  man- 
ner, while  he  stooped  carefully  and  picked  up  the  scarlet  robes 
upon  which  Tuscaluza  had  so  scornfully  trampled.  These  he  re- 
stored to  the  Cassique. 

"  Why  should  the  great  warrior  show  to  the  Spaniards  that  he 
is  angry,  and  cast  his  gifts  upon  the  ground  ?  Let  the  robe  dis- 
guise the  wrath.  Let  the  great  warrior  rather  persuade  the 


THE  SPANIARDS   MERRY.  479 

Spaniards  that  he  is  a  friend ;  nor  tell  him  when  he  means  to 
strike." 

The  suggestion  corresponded  happily  with  the  genius  of  savage 
warfare. 

''  Good  !"  said  the  chief,  resuming  and  shaking  the  robes,  but 
without  freeing  them  from  the  stains  which  they  had  already 
taken  from  the  earth.  When  the  next  day,  these  stains  were 
visible  to  the  eyes  of  the  Spaniards,  the  cavaliers  enjoyed  a  pleas- 
ant laugh  at  the  expense  of  the  grim  warrior. 

"  He  drank  quite  too  much  of  the  Canaries  last  night,  your 
Excellency,"  said  Nuno  de  Tobar.  "  He  hath  been  rolling  down 
hill,  and  methinks  hath  had  a  taste  of  the  river,  which  doubtless 
failed  to  relish  after  the  wine." 

"  Nay,  Sefior  Nuno,"  was  the  reply,  "  he  walked  away  with 
all  the  erectness  which  he  showed  at  the  beginning." 

"  Yes  j  but  did  you  not  see  that  he  never  trusted  himself  to  the 
back  of  his  horse.  It  was  led  off  by  one  of  his  followers,  and  he 
strode  away  on  foot." 

"  Yes ;  and  had  thine  eyes  but  followed  him  as  he  sped,  then 
wouklst  thou  have  seen  that  his  movement  was  solid  and  square, 
like  a  tower.  He  went  not  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  till  the 
great  forests  received  him." 

"Then  hath  he  had  a  brew  of  his  own  ere  he  slept,  for  verily 
those  stains  of  the  scarlet  are  those  of  a  man  who  hath  wallowed 
upon  the  bosom  of  his  mother,  without  knowing  well  what  arms 
have  embraced  him.  All  these  savages  possess  the  art  of  making 
strong  drink." 

"  And  upon  that  thou  found'st  thy  argument  for  its  necessity 
and  justification.  Go  to,  Senor  Nuno,  and  let  not  this  heathen 
Prince  suspect  that  you  laugh  at  his  weakness — if  such  it  be — for 
verily  he  is  as  proud  and  jealous  of  his  state  as  ever  was  Lucifer, 
when  he  had  sway  among  the  stars.  Away  to  thy  post,  and  see 
that  thy  detachment  be  in  marching  order  !  Remember,  he  is  not 
to  suspect  that  there  are  guards  upon  his  person." 

Such  was  the  policy  of  the  Spaniards.  That  of  Tuscaluza, 
tutored  as  he  was  by  Vasconselos,  was  a  few  shades  more  pro- 
found. All  that  night  these  two  chiefs  communed  together  in  the 
hovel ;  Cogalla,  after  a  while,  having  retired.  Juan  was  kept  in 
waiting,  but  in  an  adjacent  cabin. 

We  design  that  the  strategics  of  the  red  men  shall  gradually 
unfold  themselves.  It  is  enough  to  mention  here  that  Philip  con- 
veyed to  the  Black  Warrior  a  full  idea  of  the  importance  to  the 
Spaniards  of  their  horses,  and  the  necessity  of  capturing  them, 
or  slaying  them.  He  counselled  the  latter  course  as  by  far  the 


480  VASCONSELOS. 

best,  but  urged,  in  the  meanwhile,  that,  in  the  event  of  a  conflict, 
the  scene  of  action  should  always  be  so  chosen  as  to  deprive  the 
cavalry  of  all  share  in  the  battle.  It  was  this  counsel  that  finally 
determined  Tuscaluza  to  conduct  the  enemy  to  one  of  his  largest 
towns,  named  Mauvila.  This  was  a  walled  town,  and  is  supposed 
to  have  stood  upon  the  northern  bank  of  the  Alabama,  at  a  place 
now  called  Choctaw  Point.  The  town  of  Mauvila  occupied  a 
noble  plain.  The  walls  were  rude,  being  high  embankments  of 
earth  and  wood,  filled  in  between  great  forest  trees ;  the  wood 
being  fastened  in  piles  with  vines  and  reeds,  and  the  face  of  the 
wall  being  plastered  with  a  thick  coating  of  native  clay  or  earth, 
which  hardened  into  smooth  consistency  in  the  sun  and  air.  The 
defences  were  slight,  of  course — such  as  strong  arms  and  good 
axes  could  hew  down  in  short  time,  and  through  which  the  small 
falconets  of  that  day  could  have  easily  blown  a  capacious  opening. 
But  the  Spaniards  were  without  artillery  of  any  kind.  Still,  they 
had  adequate  implements  for  breaking  their  way,  if  time  were 
allowed  them.  The  wall  was  pierced  with  loop-holes  for  arrows, 
and  at  certain  moderate  distances  it  was  surmounted  by  numer- 
ous towers,  each  capable  of  holding  a  score  of  fighting  men. 
There  were  but  two  gates,  one  on  the  east,  the  other  on  the  west 
side.  In  the  centre  of  the  village  was  a  great  square,  or  parade- 
ground,  around  which  the  buildings  were  erected.  These  did  not 
exceed  a  hundred  in  number,  but  they  were  mostly  vast  fortresses, 
capable  of  containing  entire  tribes,  from  five  hundred  to  fifteen 
hundred  persons  in  each — great  halls  only,  without  rooms ;  the 
red  men  lodging  together  as  in  caravanserais. 

To  this  place,  thus  constructed,  the  Black  Warrior  conducted 
his  destined  victims.  He  was  accompanied  by  few  personal  at- 
tendants, and  no  warriors.  To  this  he  had  been  counselled  by 
Vasconselos.  But  he  had  made  preparations  elsewhere  for  the 
part  which  his  followers  had  to  play,  and  the  consciousness  that 
he  was  held  a  close  prisoner  by  the  very  courteous  knight  who 
attended  him,  did  not  lessen  his  purpose  of  giving  the  Spaniards 
such  sauce  to  their  supper  as  would  effectually  spoil  their  appe- 
tites. When  the  vanguard  of  De  Soto's  army  appeared  before 
the  town,  the  Adelantado  leading  and  accompanied  by  Tuscaluza, 
a  splendid  array  of  the  native  warriors,  flaunting  in  feathers,  in 
robes  of  fur  and  cotton,  of  various  and  brilliant  colors,  came 
forth  to  meet  them.  To  these  succeeded  long  lines  of  beautiful 
damsels — and  they  were  beautiful  though  dusky — "  dark  but 
comely"  as  was  the  maid  who  was  sung  by  the  erring  muse  of 
Solomon  the  Wise. — These  came  forth  with  songs  and  dances, — 
rude  pipes  of  reed,  the  simple  flutes  of  the  region — cymbals  and 


THE   FATE   FOLLOWS.  481 

drums,  made  of  the  gourd,  covered  with  skins  tightly  drawn,  and 
long  clarions,  hollowed  out  of  the  soft  woods  common  to  the 
swamps. 

So  far,  all  seemed  to  go  as  merrily  as  marriage  bells,  and  De 
Soto  had  no  cause  for  apprehension ;  but  he  had  some  occasions 
for  doubt,  when,  on  entering  the  town,  he  found  that,  while  he, 
himself,  his  officers  and  immediate  attendants,  were  assigned  a 
couple  of  the  best  houses  of  the  place,  his  troops  were  to  be 
lodged  in  cabins  without  the  walls.  The  great  body  of  the  army 
had  not  yet  arrived,  but  followed  on,  somewhat  too  tardily,  un- 
der the  charge  of  Luis  de  Moscoso. 

Hanging  closely,  but  unseen,  upon  the  steps  of  Moscoso — like 
a  gathering  thunder  cloud  that  marshals  its  mighty  legions  on  the 
very  verge  of  the  horizon — Philip  de  Vasconselos  followed  with 
a  force  of  some  three  thousand  warriors.  A  dozen  times  was 
he  tempted  by  the  heedless  manner  of  Moscoso's  march  to  dart 
upon  him  with  his  cloud  of  savages,  and  destroy  him,  if  possible, 
before  he  could  unite  with  De  Soto ;  and  long  afterwards  did 
he  reproach  himself  with  not  having  done  so.  Could  he  have 
seen  the  banneret  of  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro  flaunting  amidst 
the  gay  array,  he  could  scarcely  have  foreborne  the  effort.  It 
was  against  Don  Balthazar  first,  and  De  Soto  next,  that  his  con- 
centrated vengeance  was  directed.  Neither  of  these  were  pre- 
sent to  stimulate  his  rage.  Besides,  he  might  mar  the  plot  con- 
cluded upon  with  the  Black  Warrior,  by  anticipating  the  desig- 
nated moment,  and  some  fugitives  might  escape  on  horseback, 
and  convey  to  the  very  victims  whom  he  sought,  the  intelligence 
which  should  enable  them  to  guard  effectually  against  the  attack. 
Hungering,  therefore,  for  the  action,  he  was  compelled  to  control 
himself  and  his  red  followers — no  easy  task — and  which  he,  per- 
haps, never  could  have  done  but  that  he  was  supported  by  t«he 
presence  and  authority  of  Cogalla,  the  Princess.  She  kept  close 
beside  him  as  he  went,  the  two  followed  by  Juan,  with  wild  emo- 
tions of  a  passionate  love  and  anger  mixed.  The  wretched  boy  ! 
He,  too,  had  his  temptations,  and  more  than  once  he  found  him- 
self meditating  to  lift  h"is  lance,  and  strike  it  into  the  back  of  the 
beautiful  Princess,  though  with  the  certainty  of  immediate  death 
himself,  that  he  might  end  his  pangs  of  jealousy  forever.  Veri- 
ly, they  were  great,  and  the  tender  devotion  of  the  Princess  to 
Philip,  never  suffered  thein  to  sleep  for  a  single  moment.  It 
was  still  a  feminine  consideration  that  restrained  him.  How 
should  his  dying  eyes  meet  the  anger  in  those  of  Philip,  were 
he  thus  to  strike? 

Tuscaluza  had  a  considerable  bodv  of  warriors  with  him  at 
21 


482  VASCONPELOS. 

Mauvila — possibly  three  or  four  thousand.  There  were  still 
other  bodies  collecting.  The  always  extravagant  statements  of 
the  Spanish  and  Portuguese  authorities,  by  which  they  have 
sought  to  exaggerate  the  importance  of  the  event,  and  to  lessen 
the  seeming  losses  of  the  Spaniards  in  the  struggle,  are  to  be 
received  with  many  grains  of  allowance.  Let  it  suffice  that  the 
Black  Warrior  was  embodying,  and  had  embodied,  a  considera- 
ble number  of  warriors,  quite  enough  to  have  devoured  his  ene- 
mies— using  his  own  language — had  there  been  any  equality  in 
their  defences  and  armor.  But  the  Spaniards  were  clad  in 
mail,  covering  the  most  vulnerable  parts ;  their  faces  only  par- 
tially exposed,  their  thighs  and  legs.  The  darts  and  arrows  had 
but  small  marks.  The  savages,  on  the  other  hand,  might  as 
well  have  been  naked.  Their  furs,  bear  skins,  and  even  shields 
of  hide,  afforded  no  sort  of  protection  from  the  bullet  of  the  fusi- 
leer,  or  even  the  sword-cuts,  the  lance-thrusts;  and  arrows  of 
the  horsemen  and  archers.  Philip  de  Vasconselos  knew  too 
well  the  greatness  of  this  inequality  between  the  combatants, 
and  felt  that  the  very  numbers  of  the  savages,  within  a  certain 
range,  were  rather  hurtful  than  helpful  in  the  action.  The  very 
valor  of  the  red  men  was  a  danger,  since  they  had  not  yet  learned 
to  appreciate  their  foes.  He  strove,  in  every  possible  way,  and 
by  every  argument,  to  teach  this  to  the  Black  Warrior,  and  his 
favorite  captain,  without  offending  their  self-esteem.  Unfortu- 
nately for  them  he  succeeded  but  imperfectly.  The  pride  and 
passions  of  Tuscaluza  both  operated  fatally  to  precipitate  events 
and  make  him  forgetful  of  all  the  counsels  of  the  Portuguese 
knight. 

It  was  early  in  the  morning  of  the  18th  of  October  that  De 
Soto,  with  the  Black  Warrrior,  and  the  vanguard  of  the  Spanish 
army,  entered  the  village  of  Mauvila.  The  town,  as  we  hive 
seen,  was  strongly  fortified,  impregnable,  indeed,  to  such  assaults 
as  were  common  to  the  experience  of  the  red  men.  The  ar- 
rangements of  Tuscaluza  for  the  disposition  of  his  troops  were 
such  as  to  offend  the  military  caution  of  the  Adelantado.  He 
was  advised,  too,  of  other  suspicious  circumstances  in  the  con- 
duct of  the  red  chief — of  the  gradual  accumulation  of  large  bo- 
dies of  troops — of  the  collection  of  vast  piles  of  weapons  of  war, 
shafts  and  macanas — and  of  several  missing  soldiers — stragglers 
who  had  probably  been  massacred.  De  Soto  was  aroused  and 
anxious,  but  felt  that  it  was  necessary  to  temporize  until  the 
coming  of  Mosooso  with  the  main  body  of  the  army.  He 
affected  to  be  satisfied,  and  felt  that  he  was  safe  so  long  as  he 
had  Tuscaluza  in  his  custody.  But  the  haughty  spirit  of  the 


THE   RUPTURE.  483 

Sovereign  precipitated  the  issue.  They  had  scarcely  entered  the 
town  when  he  signified  to  De  Soto  the  abode  which  had  been 
assigned  him,  while  he  indicated  his  own  purpose  to  occupy  ano- 
ther. But  the  Adelantado  replied,  cavalierly  perhaps — that  he 
did  not  approve  of  the  arrangement. 

"  The  Black  Warrior  will  remain  with  me." 
The  haughty  soul  of  Tuscaluza  then  blazed  out — 
"  The  Black  Warrior  is  the  king  in  all  these  countries.     It  is 
for  him  to  command.     It  is  for  all  others  to  obey.     The  Spanish 
chief  is  at  liberty  to  depart,  but  he  must  not  pretend  to  say 
to   Tuscaluza,   here  shalt   thou   remain,    or  thither  shalt   thou 
go.     Does  the  Spaniard  hear  ?     Such  is  the  speech  of  the  Black 
Warrior." 

The  moment  was  not  auspicious  for  a  decisive  reply  to  this 
speech,  such  as,  under  other  circumstances,  De  Soto  would  have 
given.  Tuscaluza  waited  for  no  answer  to  his  words.  He  en 
tered  the  dwelling  which  he  had  indicated  as  his  own  abode, 
leaving  the  Spanish  chief  to  find  his  way  to  the  other.  That  in 
which  he  took  shelter  contained  a  thousand  warriors.  De  Soto 
quietly  proceeded  to  the  dwelling  appointed  for  his  use,  and  in- 
stantly sent  out  his  officers  to  go  secretly  among  his  troopers, 
and  command  them  to  hold  themselves  in  readiness  for  action. 
Meanwhile,  he  resolved  still  to  keep  up  the  appearance  of  friend- 
ship and  cordiality.  Breakfast  being  prepared,  he  sent  Juan 
Ortiz,  the  interpreter,  to  invite  the  Black  Warrior  to  his  table. 
He  was  refused  admittance,  but  his  message  was  delivered,  and 
the  reply  was  civil — "The  Black  Warrior  will  come." 

But  the  Black  Warrior  did  not  come.  Some  time  elapsed, 
and  Juan  Ortiz  was  sent  with  a  second  message,  receiving  the 
same  answer  as  before.  The  same  result  followed.  There  was 
a  long  delay ;  and  again  Juan  Ortiz  was  despatched  with  a  third 
message.  Now,  whether  it  was  that  the  interpreter,  vexed  at 
his  repeated  miscarriages,  became  insolent  in  his  tone  and  lan- 
guage, or  whether  the  red  men  now  found  themselves  ready  for 
a  change  in  theirs,  must  be  a  subject  of  conjecture ;  but,  when 
Juan  Ortiz,  standing  at  the  door  of  the  Sovereign,  cried  aloud  to 
his  subjects — "  Tell  Tuscaluza,  that  the  food  grows  cold  upon 
the  table ;  that  the  Adelantado  awaits  him,  and  sends  to  him  to 
come  forth  at  once," — then  the  long  suppressed  storm  broke 
out  in  fury.  A  red  warrior  sallied  forth  to  the  entrance,  crying 
aloud,  while  his  eyes  flashed  fire,  and  all  his  face  was  inflamed 
with  anger — 

"  Vagabond  and  robber,  begone !  Is  it  such  as  thou  that 
darest  clamor  aloud  at  the  doors  of  a  great  chief,  crying,  come 


484  VASCONSELOS. 

forth,  come  forth !  Away  to  thy  robber  master,  and  say  to  him, 
that  when  Tuscaluza  comes  forth  it  is  to  destroy  him.  Hence, 
vagabond!"  And  as  Juan  Ortiz,  half  frightened  out  of  his 
senses,  sped  away,  he  could  hear  the  grim  savage  exclaim 
proudly — 

"  By  the  sun  and  moon !  This  is  no  longer  to  be  borne.  To 
your  weapons,  warriors  of  Mauvila,  and  let  us  put  an  end  to  the 
insolence  of  these  wandering  wretches  !" 

The  speaker  was  the  great  leader  of  the  Mauvilians — their 
general — in  their  own  phrase,  the  Big  Warrior.  He  had  led 
them  in  a  hundred  conflicts.  He  had  won  fame  and  glory  from 
them  all.  His  triumphs  were  about  to  end  with  his  conflicts. 
Having  spoken,  he  beheld  a  group  of  Spaniards  in  the  great 
square,  closely  huddled  together.  There  were  other  Spaniards 
near  at  hand,  but  passing  singly.  He  did  not  notice  these,  but 
making  a  signal  to  one  of  his  followers,  a  bow  and  arrows  were 
handed  him.  He  seized  the  bow,  threw  back  from  his  shoulders 
the  flowing  mantle  of  skins  which  he  wore,  and  was  about  fixing 
the  arrow  to  the  string,  when  his  purpose  was  arrested  and  his 
movements  anticipated  by  the  action  of  one  of  those  cool,  always 
ready  and  prompt  warriors,  to  whom  constant  strife  has  served 
to  impart  resolve  and  instantaneous  action — one  Balthazar  de 
Gallegos.  The  sword  from  this  warrior,  already  bared  in  his 
grasp,  flashed  in  air  the  moment,  when  the  Big  Warrior  grasped 
the  bow,  and  before  the  arrow  could  leave  the  string,  the  sharp 
blade  was  ranging  through  the  vitals  of  the  red  man,  who  fell 
dead  upon  the  spot.  And  thus  commenced  a  conflict  of  a  charac- 
ter the  most  terrible  and  bloody,  destined  to  paralyze  the  for- 
tunes of  Hernan  de  Soto.  The  fate  which  had  been  hovering 
like  a  storm-cloud  above  his  head,  was  swooping  down  at  last 
upon  his  victim. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

"  Ha  !  what  shout  is  this  ?"  CortotontM. 

THE  soup  of  the  Adelantado  that  day  was  cooled  uneaten. 
Scarcely  had  Juan  Ortiz  entered  the  dwelling  which  his  master 
occupied,  and  declared  his  tidings,  when  the  war-whoop  rang 
throughout  the  village,  echoed  by  five  thousand  vigorous  voices. 
The  warriors  poured  forth  from  a  thousand  unsuspected  vomitories. 
They  slaughtered  the  scattered  Spaniards,  as,  heedless  of  their 
leader's  order,  they  lounged  about  street  and  square.  The  latter 
fought,  but  vainly.  They  were  driven  from  the  town  ;  numbers 
of  the  cavaliers  saw  their  horses  slain,  shot  down  before  their 
eyes ;  a  loss  which  they  held  to  be  even  more  serious  than  of 
the  soldiery.  To  slay  the  horses  was  especially  the  labor,  of  one 
large  portion  of  the  savages.  To  this  had  they  been  counselled 
by  their  chiefs,  under  instructions  of  Vasconselos.  Unluckily  for 
themselves,  this  was  almost  the  only  part  of  his  instructions  which 
they  seem  to  have  remembered.  But,  for  a  time,  their  successes 
were  too  flattering  to  suffer  them  to  pause.  The  vanguard  of  the 
Spaniards  expelled  from  their  walls,  several  slain,  many  more 
wounded,  more  than  thirty  horses  killed  outright,  or  maimed  for- 
ever, and  the  whole  of  the  baggage  of  the  invading  army,  with  the 
single  exception  of  one  knight's  effects  ;  these  were  successes  cal- 
culated to  turn  the  heads  of  any  savage  people,  ignorant  of  their 
enemy,  and  incapable  Of  any  true  estimate  of  the  means  by  which 
they  had  won  success. 

And  such  had  been  the  advantages  gained  by  the  red  men  in 
their  first  demonstration  against  the  Spaniard,  at  Mauvila.  They 
had  lost  their  general,  the  fierce  brave  who  had  so  summarily 
dismissed  Juan  Ortiz  with  defiance  to  his  master,  and  who  had 
perished  under  the  sudden  sword-thrust  of  Balthazar  de  Gallegos. 
His  son,  a  noble  young  warrior,  had  perished  also,  in  the  effort  to 
avenge  his  death,  but  not  before  he  had  pummelled  Gallegos 
about  the  head  and  ears  with  his  bow,  until  the  Spaniard  was 
blinded  with  his  blood,  and  stunned,  almost  to  perishing,  be- 
neath his  blows.  The  gallant  savage  had  in  vain  sent  his  arrows 
at  the  mailed  bosom  of  the  Castilian  knight.  In  slaying  half  a 
score  of  Spaniards  the  red  men  had  lost  hundreds  ;  but  there  was 
no  lack  of  numbers  to  take  their  places,  and  they  scarcely  felt 

485 


486  VASCOKSELOS. 

their  losses.  It  was  not  so  with  the  white  warriors,  who  were  too 
few,  not  to  feel  severely  the  loss  of  such  a  large  proportion  of 
their  whole  disposable  force.  The  result,  whatever  the  inequality 
of  loss,  was  a  temporary  triumph  with  the  Mauvilians.  They 
had  beaten  the  invader  from  their  fastnesses,  and  they  were  in 
possession  of  all  the  spoils  of  the  field.  They  had  also  released 
the  captive  Tamenes  from  the  chains  of  their  masters,  had  put 
weapons  into  their  hands,  and  thus  more  than  made  up  for  the 
number  which  had  been  lost  by  the  battle  to  their  ranks.  Exult 
ing  in  the  successes  which  they  had  won,  the  red  men  closed  their 
gates,  displayed  their  spolia  opima  from  the  walls,  and  running 
to  and  fro  along  the  parapets,  brandished  their  arms  with  exulta- 
tion, while  the  welkin  rang  with  their  wild  shouts  of  triumph  and 
defiance. 

Goaded  with  fury  by  what  they  saw,  the  Spanish  chivalry  with- 
out the  walls,  organizing  themselves,  rapidly  dashed  forward  to 
the  gates  with  the  view  of  assailing  them,  or,  at  least,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  covering  the  foot  soldiers,  who  advanced  with  their  axes 
for  this  purpose.  But  the  brave  Mauvilians — too  valiant,  eager 
and  exulting  to  observe  a  becoming  prudence — never  suffered 
them  to  approach  the  gates,  but  leaping  the  walls  in  hundreds, 
resolutely  took  the  field,  exposing  their  naked  bosoms  fearlessly 
to  the  superior  weapons  of  theCastilians.  A  desperate  conflict  en- 
sued :  the  numbers  and  reckless  valor  of  the  red  men  proving 
quite  a  match  for  the  superior  civilization  of  their  foes,  while  the 
struggle  was  confined  to  those  who  fought  entirely  on  foot.  Fierce, 
indeed,  was  the  affray.  Mercy  was  neither  asked  nor  expected. 
The  shafts  of  the  savages  answered  to  the  lances  of  the  Spaniards ; 
the  stone  battle-axe  and  thundering  macana  did  not  recoil  from 
the  sharp  collision  with  the  polished  blade  of  the  Toledan.  It  was 
only  when  the  cavaliers  of  Spain  dashed  in  to  the  support  of  their 
comrades  that  the  Mauvilians  gave  ground,  and  retreated  to  the 
cover  of  their  fortress.  Thither  the  mounted  men  pursued  them, 
but  were  driven  back  by  showers  of  stones  and  arrows  from  the 
walls  and  loop-holes  of  the  town.  As  they  wavered  and  recoiled, 
the  Mauvilians  again  sallied  forth,  closing  with  the  cavaliers,  seiz- 
ing on  their  very  bridles,  grasping  their  lances,  tearing  them 
from  their  hands,  and  clinging  to  the  retiring  horses  until  dragged 
away  hundreds  of  paces  from  the  walls.  Such  a  conflict,  valor  so 
inflexible,  afforded  but  small  encouragement  to  the  hopes  of  the 
invader,  and  De  Soto  groaned  over  the  tardy  progress  of  Mos- 
coso,  and  the  absence  of  more  than  half  his  little  army. 

In  this  manner  had  they  fought,  without  decisive  results — unless 
in  favor  of  the  Mauvilians — for  three  mortal  hours,  when  Luis  de 


ISTALANA,    THE    "  CHIEF  THAT   BROODS."  •          487 

Moscoso  made  his  appearance  with  the  main  body  of  the  Spanish 
forces,  and  at  once  engaged  in  the  melee.  But  with  his  appearance 
in  the  field,  that  of  Philip  de'Vasconselos  took  place  also. 

For  a  moment  let  us  pause  in  this  place,  to  say  that  none  of  the 
relations  of  this  great  event,  as  given  by  the  Spanish  and  Portu- 
guese narrators,  are  to  be  entirely  relied  on.  The  history  which  the 
lion  might  give  of  his  achievements  has  yet  to  be  written.  The 
accounts  of  the  white  men  are  grievously  confused  and  contradic- 
tory, for  the  simple  reason  that  they  labored  to  obscure,  to  mod- 
ify, and  even  to  pervert  the  details  whose  results  were  so  disas- 
trous to  their  progress,  and,  as  they  fancied,  in  their  national  pride 
and  vanity,  so  discreditable  to  their  arms.  Now,  the  reader  will 
please  to  understand  that  our  version  of  the  story  is  drawn  chiefly 
from  the  narratives  of  the  Mauvilians  themselves,  as  contained  in 
tfce  celebrated  MSS.  of  the  Great  lawa,  or  High  Priest  of  Chick- 
asah,  Oolena  Ithiopoholla,  who  wore  the  sacred  symbols,  some- 
where about  the  year  1619,  only  about  70  years  after  this  event. 
The  narrative  is  written  on  the  bark  of  trees,  in  the  Choctaw  charac- 
ter, and,  bating  some  few  injuries  from  exposure  and  time  (which  do 
not  affect  it  in  the  portions  relating  to  the  battle  of  Mauvila),  may 
still  be  read  in  the  keeping  of  my  excellent  red  friend  Mico  Tus- 
kina  Ithiopolla,  a  lineal  descendant  of  the  venerable  lawa,  by 
whose  hands  it  was  written.  Our  account  of  the  affair,  which  we 
modestly  venture  to  assert  is  the  only  one  deserving  of  perfect 
confidence,  is  drawn  almost  entirely  from  this  ancient  and  vera- 
cious chronicle. 

To  resume  from  its  pages  : 

"  Now  had  the  battle  lasted  three  mortal  hours,  when  another 
and  a  larger  army  of  the  Spaniards,  under  one  of  their  great  gen- 
erals, by  name  Luis  de  Moscoso,  made  his  appearance  in  the  field. 
He  had  been  closely  watched  and  followed  during  the  march  from 
Tuscaloosa  by  the  white  chief,  to  whom  had  been  given  the  name 
of  Istalana,  and  of  whose  cruel  treatment  by  the  Spaniards,  and 
happy  escape,  by  the  help  of  the  great  Princess  Co^alla,  of  Cofa- 
chiqui,  we  have  already  related  the  account.  Istalana  (or  'the 
chief  that  broods')  led  a  force  of  three  thousand  brave  warriors  of 
Tuscaloosa  and  Cofachiqui,  full  command  over  whom  had  been 
given  him  by  the  Great  King.  Now,  so  soon  as  Istalana  beheld 
the  warriors  of  Moscoso  preparing  to  join  with  the  troops  under 
Soto,  the  Castilian,  and  to  advance  against  the  walls  of  Mauvila, 
he  set  upon  him  suddenly,  with  a  terrible  assault  from  behind.  Mo- 
scoso was  greatly  astonied  at  this  assault,  for  he  knew  not  that  he 
was  so  closely  watched  and  followed.  But  he  turned  upon  Istalana 
ord  his  men  and  made  good  fight  for  the  victory ;  and  he  was  joined 


488  VASCONSELOS. 

by  the  men  upon  the  horses  of  Soto,  the  Castilian,  and  great  were 
the  deeds  of  arms  that  followed,*and  many  were  the  blows  given 
and  received,  and  glorious  was  the  slaughter.  The  earth  and  sun 
drank  great  streams  of  blood  that  day ;  and,  for  that  the  war- 
riors of  Mauvila  were  too  brave  to  need  coverings  for  their 
breasts  against  the  darts  of  their  enemies,  the  slaughter  fell  most 
heavily  upon  them ;  while  the  Spaniards,  being  covered  with 
scales  of  hard  metal,  or  wrapped  in  many  folds  of  a  thick  gar- 
ment, which  shook  off  the  shafts  of  the  Mauvila  warriors  when 
delivered  from  a  distance,  they  suffered  less  grievously,  and 
many  were  but  hurt  and  wounded,  when,  but  for  reason  of  their 
armor  of  metal,  they  would  have  died  outright!  But  the  Mau- 
vilians  hurt  and  smote  them  sorely,  and  bruised  them  with  many 
blows,  so  that  none  of  them  utterly  escaped,  while  many  were 
slain  with  shafts  rightly  delivered  between  the  eyes,  and,  wh«n 
they  chanced  to  turn  their  backs,  with  arrows  that  drove  through 
the  body  beneath  the  shoulders  and  rested  against  the  metallic 
plates  in  front.  Hundreds  carried  with  them  grievous  wounds 
in  the  legs  and  thighs,  which  were  less  sheltered  by  armor ;  and 
wherever  the  warriors  of  Castile  and  Mauvila  strove  together 
hand  to  hand,  the  one  with  bright  sword  shining  in  the  sun,  the 
other  with  the  heavy  macana,  or  the  thundering  stone  hatchet, 
then  did  the  armor  prove  no  help,  but  rather  a  hurt  to  the  white 
warriors,  and  they  fell  crushed  beneath  the  blows  of  Mauvila,  and 
they  fled  before  the  might  of  her  warriors.  And  great  was  the 
destruction  of  the  strange  beast  which  they  call  the  horse,  of 
whom  the  Spaniards  took  great  account,  and,  for  which  reason, 
the  warriors  of  Mauvila  smote  and  slew  them  without  sparing. 
Verily,  they  slew  more  than  seventy  of  these  giant  beasts  in  the 
course  of  the  day's  fighting,  sending  the  arrows  right  through 
their  huge  bodies,  so  that  the  feathers  only  lay  hidden  in  the 
bowels  of  the  beast. 

"  And  when  the  warriors  within  the  walls  of  Mauvila,  who 
were  commanded  by  the  great  king  himself,  beheld  how  that  the 
Spaniards  were  set  upon  by  the  troops  of  Istalana  from  behind, 
then  did  he  rise  and  cry  aloud : 

"  '  Now  is  the  time  for  ye  to  go  forth,  ye  warriors  of  Mauvila, 
and  all  the  followers  of  the  great  king !  Now  send  ye  up  the 
great  shout  of  war  which  leads  to  victory,  and  get  ye  out  from 
the  fortress  to  the  fight,  while  your  women,  and  the  young 
daughters  of  Mauvila  gather  upon  the  walls  and  cry  to  ye  with 
words  of  love  and  welcome,  and  sing  the  while  sweet  songs  of 
victory  and  vengeance !  Now  to  your  arms!  and  go  forth  and 
fight  against  the  Spaniards  from  the  walls,  while  Istalana,  the 


489 

white  warrior,  who  is  our  general,  deals  death  upon  them  from 
behind !' 

" '  And  they  went  forth,  even  as  he  commanded,  with  a  mighty 
whoop  of  victory,  which  shook  the  earth  and  struck  terror  to  the 
hearts  of  the  pale  faces.  And  the  Spaniards,  who  rode  the  mighty 
horses,  rushed  together,  like  a  great  hurricane,  between  the  war- 
riors of  Mauvila,  who  came  forth  from  the  fortress,  and  the  foot- 
soldiers  of  the  chief  Moscoso.  And  they  rushed  over  many  of 
our  people,  and  they  trampled  them  under  the  iron  hoofs  of  the 
mighty  beasts  ;  but  the  rest  parted  each  way  from  before  them, 
then  closed  behind  them  as  they  sped,  delivering  swift  arrows 
that  pierced  the  beasts  to  the  bowels,  and  pierced  the  riders  to 
the  brain,  so  that  they  rolled  together  in  sore  agony,  and  with 
grevious  cries  upon  the  stricken  earth.  And  even  as  the  war- 
riors of  Mauvila  sank  down  beneath  their  beasts,  other  braves 
darted  hotly  forth  to  take  their  places,  and  it  gladdened  the  big 
heart  of  the  great  king  that  day,  to  behold  with  what  a  joy  his 
braves  died  for  his  honor,  and  to  save  his  country  from  the 
Spaniards.  Verily,  it  is  too  much  to  tell;  for  they  alone  who 
saw  could  truly  report  what  glorious  deaths  were  that  day  given 
and  received,  and  how  the  blood  gushed  from  the  big  heart,  and 
the  brains  of  brave  warriors  were  beaten  out,  and  how  the 
bowels  of  the  mighty  beasts  fell  down  at  the  sharp  passage  of  the 
lance  and  knife;  for  the  cunning  warriors  of  Mauvila,  while  they 
lay  wounded  beneath  the  horses,  smote  them  suddenly  under  their 
great  bellies.  And  then  the  beasts  grew  maddened,  and  they 
fled  swiftly  as  the  arrow  flies,  with  a  horrid  scream,  and  grievous 
groans,  the  bowels  trailing  as  they  sped,  until  they  could  fly  no 
more,  and  rolled  over  their  riders,  the  chiefs  in  armor,  whom 
they  crushed  beneath  their  own  weight.  And  at  every  horse 
thus  slain  the  women  and  the  maidens  upon  the  walls  of  Mauvila 
made  a  new  song  of  rejoicing.  And  they  sang — 

" '  Great  is  the  Brave  of  the  Mauvilian  who  hath  slain  the 
mighty  beast  of  the  pale  faces. 

" '  He  shall  be  named  the  Slayer  of  the  Beast  forever,  and  there 
shall  be  a  totem  for  his  bosom,  with  the  picture  of  the  beast. 

"  '  And  his  name  shall  be  sung  forever  by  the  maidens  of  Mau- 
vila ;  and  the  warriors  shall  go  ever  into  battle  with  a  fcry 
upon  his  name. 

" '  Verily,  he  shall  pass  the  blue  mountains  upon  the  spirit  of 
the  beast  that  he  hath  slain.  He  shall  hunt  in  the  Happy  Val- 
lies  on  the  body  of  the  beast ;  and  when  he  enters  the  lodge  of 
the  Great  Master  of  Souls,  then  shall  a  voice  welcome  him  with 
a  cry,  saying,  make  way  there — give  place  all  of  ye,  for  hither 
21* 


490  VASCONSELOS. 

comes  the  warrior  that  hath  slain  the  Great  Beast  of  the  Pale 
Faces.' 

"  '  Verily,  as  the  Mauvilian  hearkened  to  this  song,  great  was 
the  desire  of  many  to  become  the  slayer  of  the  beasts  which  the 
Spanish  warriors  rode.  Yet  there  were  some  who  sought  rather 
to  take  them  captive ;  for  wherefore  should  the  warriors  of  Mau- 
vila  not  bestride  them,  even  as  the  Castilians  ?  But  the  greater 
number  preferred  to  slay  them,  for  they  knew  not  by  what 
words  to  make  the  beasts  know  their  masters,  and  they  feared 
the  danger  from  their  heels,  and  they  wist  not  how  to  guide 
them  in  their  flight.  So  they  slew  them,  whenever  they  could, 
save  in  few  cases,  when,  as  was  the  counsel  of  the  chief  Istalana, 
they  caught  them  by  their  bridles  after  they  had  slain  their 
riders,  and  led  them  off  into  the  thickets. 

"  Now,  Istalana,  the  white  warrior,  himself  had  one  of  these 
beasts,  upon  which  he  made  to  ride  a  strange  boy  who  followed 
him  in  silence — a  creature  black  as  the  great  bear  of  Nolichucky. 
But,  when  the  battle  drew  nigh,  and  when  he  was  about  to  set 
upon  the  troops  of  Moscoso,  he  bade  this  black  boy  take  shelter 
with  the  Princess  Cocalla  in  the  thicket,  which  was  at  hand,  and 
where  many  harbored  close  unseen.  And  Istalana  raised  him- 
self with  a  single  bound  upon  the  back  of  this  beast ;  and  he  had 
strong  thongs  of  bear  skin  with  which  to  guide  him ;  and  a  great 
chair  of  bear  skin,  with  horns,  but  without  feet,  was  beneath  him, 
and  upon  the  back  of  the  beast.  And  Istalana  armed  himself 
with  a  long  lance  which  he  had  made,  thrice  as  great  and  heavy 
as  that  borne  by  our  people.  And  he  carried  besides  a  great 
battle  axe  of  metal  which  had  been  taken  from  the  Spaniards. 
And,  thus  armed  and  mounted,  he  prepared  to  ride  into  the  bat- 
tle even  as  the  Spaniards  rode.  But  first,  he  put  large  bodies 
of  our  warriors  in  ambush,  close  in  the  woods,  but  beside  the 
field  of  battle ;  and  he  bade  them  not  show  themselves  until  he 
gave  them  command  to  do  so.  And  he  led  but  one  third  of  the 
Mauvilians  into  battle  against  Moscoso,  being  but  a  thousand 
men.  And  to  these  he  gave  command  that  they  should  greatly 
scatter  themselves ;  that  they  should  shelter  themselves  beneath 
the  trees,  wherever  these  stood,  and  thus  escape  the  wrath  of  the 
mighty  beasts,  whom  they  were  to  transfix  with  their  arrows.  And 
he  taught  ihem  truly,  moreover,  to  aim  their  darts  only  at  the 
faces  and  the  thighs  of  the  Spaniards,  for  '  Verily,'  said  he, 
'  What  matters  if  you  slay  them  not  outright.  Wound  them 
only,  so  that  they  shall  become  disabled,  and  how  easy  then  to 
run  in  and  brain  them  with  the  hatchet  of  stone.'  And,  of  a 
trutli,  had  they  followed  this  counsel  of  Istalana,  then  had  not  so 


THE   RED   CAVALIER.  491 

many  great  warriors  of  Mauvila  fallen  on  that  day.  But  it  was 
in  the  wildness  of  their  valor,  which  suffered  them  to  fear  no 
danger,  that  so  many  of  them  yielded  their  naked  life  to  the  death 
shaft  of  the  Spaniard. 

"  Now,  it  was  even  in  the  moment  when  the  Spanish  warriors 
who  rode  were  trampling  down  the  braves  of  Mauvila,  striving 
to  keep  them  back  from  the  conflict  which  had  begun  between 
the  troops  of  Istalana  and  Moscoso,  that  the  chief  Istalana  ap- 
peared in  front,  mounted  on  one  of  the  great  beasts  of  the  Span- 
iards. Verily,  the  beast  was  of  a  beautiful  strength  and  majesty, 
and  he  had  a  name  with  his  master,  and  he  was  called  Bajardo. 
And  when  the  Spaniards  beheld  the  beast — though  they  knew 
nothing  of  the  great  chief  Istalana,  (for  he  was  no  longer  of  the 
pale  sickly  color  of  the  white  men,  but  had  been  made  comely 
by  the  war  paint  of  the  Mauvilians,  and  he  wore  feathers  of  the 
birds  of  Mauvila  and  Apalachia,  and  a  robe  off  saffron-cotton  of 
our  people,  and  upon  his  shoulders  a  rich  robe  of  fur  which  the 
Great  King  had  given  him  when  he  made  him  a  chief,) — when,  I 
say,  the  Spaniards  beheld  the  beast,  they  said  one  to  another, 
'  Is  not  that  Bajardo,  the  horse  which  was  ridden  of  old  by  the 
Blackamoor  Juan,  the  Page  of  the  knight  of  Portugal  ] '  And 
they  answered,  '  Verily,  it  doth  seem  so.  Yet  hath  he  long  been 
missing.' 

"  But  they  saw  nothing  of  the  Blackamoor,  and  they  knew  not 
the  knight  of  Portugal,  in  the  costume  and  the  war  paint  of  the 
Mauvilian.  And  the  knight  of  Portugal,  now  the  chief  Istalana, 
rode  forth  towards  the  warriors  of  Spain,  even  to  where  was 
seen,  making  great  show  above  the  rest,  the  chief,  Soto,  of  Cas- 
tile, their  general  and  great  warrior.  And  Soto  and  his  war- 
riors marvelled  much  when  they  saw  a  red  warrior  of  Mauvila 
so  gallantly  riding  towards  them ;  and  they  wondered  more 
when  they  saw  him  shake  out  his  lance  in  defiance,  waving  it 
towards  Soto  himself,  and,  in  the  manner  of  the  pale  warriors, 
thus  seeming  to  bid  him  come  to  the  conflict.  And  the  captains 
and  chiefs  around  Soto  were  angry,  and  they  said,  '  Let  us  go 
and  punish  this  insolent  savage  ;'  but  Soto  said — 

" '  Nay  !  It  is  for  me  to  punish  his  insolence !'  And  he  rode 
forth  alone,  a  little  ahead  of  the  rest ;  and,  seeing  this,  Istalana 
said  to  the  Mauvilians — 

"  '  Get  ye  back  all,  and  leave  Soto,  of  Castile,  to  me.  Only  see 
that  others  come  not  between"  us.  If  I  slay  him,  or  ye  see  me 
overthrown,  then  fall  fiercely  upon  the  chiefs  that  follow  him ; 
and  heed  ever  the  things  that  1  have  told  ye.' 

"  And  the  warriors  of  Mauvila  fell  back.     And  Istalana  pre- 


492  VASCONSELOS. 

pared  himself  for  Soto,  though  he  carried  no  weapon  but  the 
heavy  lance,  and  the  great  axe  of  metal,  such  as  the  Spaniards 
bore.  And  he  had  no  armor  upon  his  limbs,  and  he  wore  no 
buckler  upon  his  arm.  And  he  went  unafraid  to  the  encounter 
with  Soto,  of  Castile.  And  Soto  came  on  briskly,  with  his  lance 
couched  for  the  encounter,  and  he  little  wist  of  the  enemy  who 
stood  before  him  ;  and  knew  not  but  that  it  was  a  brave  native 
warrior  of  Mauvila  ;  for  he  saw  that  they  were  a  people  the  most 
daring  of  all  the  world,  who  were  willing  to  fight  with  any  foe,  and 
with  any  weapons,  or  according  to  any  fashion.  And  knowing 
this,  Soto  said  within  himself — 

" '  Now,  verily,  these  warriors  of  Mauvila  have  a  world  of 
impudence.  Here  is  a  savage  that  hath  gotten  him  a  beast 
which  he  knows  not  how  to  manage,  yet  would  he  undertake 
the  warfare  with  me  after  my  own  fashion.  Yet,  in  sooth,  he 
keeps  his  seat  with  a  tolerable  grace  and  steadiness,  and  with 
proper  teaching  might  be  rendered  a  right  comely  and  formida- 
ble cavalier.  Yet  shall  I  have  to  punish  him  with  a  death  thrust, 
that  I  may  rebuke  the  overweening  presumption  of  his  people. ' 

"  And  so  thinking  and  speaking  to  himself,  Soto,  the  Castil- 
ian,  spurred  his  beast  forward  to  the  meeting  with  Istalana,  who, 
nothing  loth,  or  slow,  made  his  beast  go  to  meet  him,  with  a 
great  rushing.  And  the  two  leveled  their  long  lances,  and 
there  was  a  great  cloud  that  wrapt  them;  and  lo,  when  the  cloud 
lifted,  there  could  be  seen  Soto,  the  cavalier,  falling  upon  the 
ground,  and  Istalana  wheeling  his  great  beast  backward,  and 
making  towards  Soto,  with  his  lance  ready  to  do  him  to  death 
with  a  thrust." 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

"  Turn  thou  the  mouth  of  thy  artillery 
Against  these  saucy  walls."  KING  JOBS. 

WE  have  given  a  sufficient  specimen  of  our  Choctaw  chronicler 
for  a  while.  Relying  on  his  authority  as  heretofore,  we  shall  yet 
forego  the  stately  simplicity,  and  the  quaint  solemnity  of  his  style, 
as  far  as  possible  in  the  future,  and  trust  to  that  which  is  more 
natural  to  ourselves  and  readers.  We  need  repeat,  after  this 
sample  of  our  authority,  that  his  account  is  the  most  trustworthy 
of  all  the  parties;  and  our  materials  will  show  that  he  supplies  a 
thousand  deficiencies,  in  the  details,  which  the  vexed  vanity  of  the 
Spanish  invaders  would  never  allow  them  to  put  on  record. 
We  proceed  now  to  our  history. 

The  fall  of  De  Soto  occasioned  naturally  a  tremendous  sensa- 
tion. The  wild  exultation  of  the  red  men  rang  throughout  the 
field  as  for  a  victory  already  gained,  and  a  most  unexpected  tri- 
umph rendered  certain.  The  Adelantado  of  the  Spaniards  was 
considered  by  the  simple  natives  in  the  light  somewhat  of  a  god- 
ifcan — a  demi-god,  who  was  in  some  degree  invincible,  or  like 
Achilles,  only  vulnerable  in  some  small  region  not  easily  reached 
by  dart  or  tomahawk.  They  were  now  disabused  of  this  super- 
stition, and  their  spirits  rose  in  consequence  to  the  highest  pitch 
of  hope  and  enthusiasm.  They  knew  not  but  that  he  was  al- 
ready slain  ;  at  least,  he  was  in  the  power  of  their  champion  ;  that 
seemed  certain,  and  a  single  stroke  of  the  terrible  lance  which 
Vasconselos  carried  was  alone  needed  for  the  coup  de  grace. 
Istalana,  now  doubly  glorious,  and  a  favorite  in  their  eyes,  seemed 
prepared  to  satisfy  their  expectations.  Wheeling  about  to  re- 
turn to  the  charge,  his  lance  was  couched,  and  the  vulture,  com- 
missioned by  the  fates  for  his  destruction,  already  threatened  De 
Soto  with  the  consummation  of  his  doom. 

But  the  Spanish  chivalry  were  not  prepared  to  suffer  the  con- 
queror to  complete  his  work  of  vengeance.  They  had  seen  the 
fall  of  their  governor ;  and,  with  a  mixed  howl  and  shout,  the  gal- 
lant cavaliers  who  had  attended  him,  and  who  had  only  remained 
a  short  distance  from  the  scene  of  the  passage  between  himself 
and  Istalana,  now  dashed  forward  to  his  rescue.  They  were  just 
in  season.  Our  Portuguese  Mauvilian  was  already  upon  his 


494  VASCONSELOS. 

enemy.  De  Soto  who  had  succeeded  in  recovering  his  feet,  had 
drawn  his  sword,  and  was  ready  to  defend  himself. 

"  Hernan  de  Soto,"  cried  Vasconselos,  to  the  complete  aston- 
ishment of  his  opponent,  "thy  hour  is  come!  The  doom  for  thee 
is  written !  Thou  shalt  die  beneath  the  hand  and  curse  of  the 
man  thou  hast  basely  dishonored  !" 

He  knew  the  voice.     He  could  no  longer  doubt  the  person. 

"  Philip  de  Vasconselos !" 

"  Ay  !  and  thy  fate !     Prepare  thee !" 

"  I  fear  thee  not,  renegade  and  traitor  !" 

"  Ha !  thou  shalt  feel  me  !" 

And  the  lance  was  couched  at  his  breast.  De  Soto  raised  his 
sword  in  defence.  Philip  would  have  sprung  from  his  steed  and 
encountered  him  on  more  equal  footing  with  the  battle-axe,  but 
just  then  the  rush  behind  him  required  him  to  guard  himself. 
The  Spanish  knights  were  upon  him.  There  were  Nuno  de  To- 
bar,  and  Balthazar  de  Gallegos,  and  many  others.  Philip  gave 
the  rowels  to  Bajardo.  He  dashed  through  the  thick  array. 
Gonzalo  de  Sylvestre  was  rolled  over  upon  the  earth ;  Alonzo  de 
Pifios  was  reached  by  the  lance  which  failed  to  slay  him,  but 
knocked  out  several  of  his  front  teeth,  and  greatly  disfiguring  his 
mouth,  spoiled  the  prettiest  face  in  the  army.  Others  were 
handled  only  less  roughly,  and  thundering  through  them  as  the 
great  buffalo  thunders  through  a  forest  of  prairie  dogs,  the  won- 
derful cavalier  of  the  red  men  broke  away  from  the  network  of 
foes  which  for  a  moment  seemed  to  threaten  him  with  captivity 
or  death.  His  forest  followers  were  not  idle.  The  warriors  of 
Mauvila  launched  themselves,  with  desperate  valor,  into  the 
thickest  of  the  wild  array,  and  the  battle,  with  all  its  terrors,  was 
resumed  on  every  side. 

It  raged  with  no  abatement  for  more  than  an  hour,  and  with 
no  seeming  change  of  fortune.  Many  of  the  Spaniards  perished  ; 
many  of  their  horses.  Hardly  one  escaped  without  wounds ; 
but  the  naked  red  men  suffered  death,  and  not  wounds,  with  every 
hurt.  More  than  a  thousand  had  perished  in  the  strife,  when 
Istalana,  whose  plans  had  been  wholly  baffled  by  the  impatient 
pride  and  haughty  valor  of  Tuscaluza  and  his  general,  succeeded 
in  drawing  off  a  portion  of  his  forces  to  the  shelter  of  the  forest, 
into  recesses  where  the  horses  could  not  pursue,  and  whence  the 
arrow  could  be  shot  with  unerring  and  unexpected  aim.  The 
red  men  disappeared  almost  in  the  twinkling  of  eye,  leaving  the 
field  strewn  with  their  bodies. 

C>galla  was  the  first  to  receive  Vasconselos.  But  where  was 
Juan"?  Philip  looked  about  him  with  inquiry.  The  page  was 


TENDER  PASSAGES.  495 

behind  him  carrying  bow  and  arrows,  and  was  covered  with  the 
dust  and  blood  of  the  field. 

"Ah  !  boy;  and  I  bade  thee  not?"  said  Vasconselos  reproach- 
fully. 

"  I  saw  them  as  they  surrounded  thee,  Seftor,  and  I  could  no 
longer  remain  away." 

Philip  smiled  sadly  on  the  Moor.  But  when  he  looked  a 
second  time  on  Coc,alla,  he  beheld  that  she  too  had  had  shared  the 
dangers  of  the  fray.  She  had  been  more  fortunate  than  Juan, 
and  had  been  wounded  in  the  arm.  Oh  !  what  were  the  pangs 
of  that  young  attendant  when  he  beheld  Vasconselos  take  the 
beautiful  arm  of  Co^alla  into  his  hands  and  carefully  help  to 
bind  up  the  still  bleeding  limb.  The  hurt  was  fortunately  slight. 
But  it  was  a  wound  received  in  his  defence  ;  and,  more  fortunate 
still,  it  was  an  arrow  from  her  bow  that  stuck  in  the  thigh  of 
De  Soto  himself,  giving  a  painful  wound,  which  would  have 
driven  from"  the  field  that  day  any  cavalier  of  merely  ordinary 
courage.  Vasconselos  had  seen,  before  the  action  was  over,  that 
De  Soto  was  hurt.  He  saw  it  by  his  riding,  though  he  knew  not 
the  nature  of  the  wound.  Little  did  he  dream  what  hand  had 
sent  the  shaft.  When  he  did  know,  when  he  conceived  fully  that 
page  and  princess  had  both  gone  forth  to  his  rescue  the  moment 
that  they  beheld  his  peril,  the  heart  of  the  melancholy  knight 
was  very  full.  No  tears  gathered  in  his  eyes.  He  had  forgot- 
ten how  to  weep ;  but  never  did  eyes  declare  such  tender  emo- 
tions; and  he  looked  from  Juan  to  Cocalla,  and  he  took  the 
hand  of  the  princess  and  kissed  it,  while  he  drew  the  trembling 
Moor  to  his  bosom,  and  said  to  him  fondly — 

"  Boy,  thou  shalt  evermore  be  brother  to  me.  I  have  no 
other  brother  now  but  thee." 

Andres  de  Vasconselos  had  been  one  of  the  cavaliers  whose 
ranks  that  day  he  had  so  fiercely  broken  through.  But  he  had 
raised  no  lance  against  that  young  kinsman's  bosom. 

Juan  trembled  with  terrible  emotions  as,  for  the  first  time, 
he  was  strained  so  warmly  to  the  breast  of  his  lord.  He  felt 
that  the  heart  within  him  was  like  a  molten  sea — all  fire,  all 
tears,  scalding  and  streaming,  but  ready  all  the  while  to  break 
through  all  barriers  and  be  poured  out  like  water  on  the  sands. 
But  the  tenderness  was  for  a  moment  only,  and  even  while  the 
knight  strained  the  Moorish  page  to  his  bosom,  the  Princess 
Cogalla  interposed,  and  laid  her  hand  first,  and  then  her  head 
upon  his  shoulder,  and  said  in  the  most  melting  manner — 

"Ah!  Philip!     Ah!  brave  Philip." 

But,  just  then,  Juan  cried  out  with  a  change  of  feeling  : — 


496  VASCONSELOS. 

"Oh!  Senor,  thou  art  wounded." 

The  red  stain  was  apparent  through  the  white  cotton  of  his 
vest.  The  garments  were  sticking  to  the  wound  upon  his 
bosom. 

"Let  it  remain,"  said  Philipj  as  page  and  princess,  now  both 
excited  with  fear,  proposed  to  attend  the  hurt. 

"  Let  it  remain.     It  is  nothing,  and  now  bleeds  no  longer." 

It  was  but  a  flesh-wound  made  by  the  partly  spent  shaft  from 
a  cross-bow.  He  had  pulled  out  the  arrow  during  the  fight,  and, 
pressing  the  garments  upon  the  wound,  had  succeeded  in  stop- 
ping the  flow  of  blood.  There  was  no  time  now  for  surgery. 
The  Spaniards  had  renewed  the  action,  and  Istalana  was  required 
to  go  forth  again. 

Furious  with  the  sanguinary  courage  of  the  Mauvilians,  con- 
scious of  the  peril  which  awaited  his  own  and  the  fortunes  of  his 
army,  and  mortified  deeply  with  the  disgrace  of  his  overthrow  in 
the  sight  of  foes  and  followers,  Hernan  de  Soto  only  delayed  the 
action  long  enough  to  enable  his  followers  to  recover  from  ex- 
haustion. It  was  necessary  to  obtain  possession  of  the  town. 
There  his  people  would  find  shelter  and  provisions,  both  of  which 
they  began  to  need.  There  had  the  red  men  stored  their  supplies 
for  the  winter.  Several  of  the  houses  were  great  granaries  of 
maize,  beans,  and  potatoes.  There,  too,  were  their  great  armo- 
ries— arrows,  arrow-bolts,  and  macanas,  darts,  and  stone  hatchets. 
To  possess  himself  of  these,  was  to  supply  his  own  soldiers,  and 
greatly  to  impoverish  and  enfeeble  the  red  men.  There,  too,  ex- 
ulting in  his  savage  pride  and  power,  was  the  hateful  and  insolent 
Tuscaluza,  the  only  cassique  among  the  native  princes  who  had 
ever  shown  himself  really  formidable  to  the  Spaniards  in  Apa- 
lachia,  up  to  the  present  moment.  All  his  passions  and  all  his 
reflections  conspired  to  goad  him  to  the  most  desperate  efforts  to 
make  his  way  into  the  fortress  of  Mauvila.  To  remain  without, 
exposed  to  the  perpetual  assaults  of  thousands  of  enemies,  spring- 
ing up  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  and  melting  away  as  suddenly 
into  their  great  forest  shelters,  was  a  prospect  that  threatened 
nothing  short  of  ruin. 

But  it  was  necessary  to  plan  the  attack  upon  the  fortress  with 
a  due  regard  to  the  thousands  who  guarded  it,  and  of  the  other 
thousands  who  swarmed  throughout  the  forests  in  his  rear.  The 
latter,  too,  were  led  by  one  who  knew  equally  well  what  was  pro- 
per to  the  warfare  of  the  red  men  and  the  Spaniards.  Bitter  and 
savage  were  the  moods  which  possessed  De  Soto  as  he  thought 
of  Philip  de  Vasconselos. 


"ONCE   MORE   UNTO  THE  BREACH."  497 

"And  I  have  fallen  beneath  his  lance  this  day;  and,  but  for 
my  followers,  I  had  been  slain  by  the  very  man  whom  I  had 
doomed  to  dishonor  and  left  to  death !" 

His  gloomy  musings  were  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of 
several  of  his  cavaliers,  Nuno  de  Tobar  and  Andres  de  Vascon- 
selos  among  them.  He  was  about  to  declare  the  secret  which 
he  alone  possessed,  that  of  the  identity  of  the  red  warrior  Istala- 
na  with  the  outlawed  knight  of  Portugal.  But  the  sight  of  An- 
dres, and  the  recollections  of  the  old  affectionate  intimacy  be- 
tween Tobar  and  Philip,  led  him  to  a  prudent  secrecy. 

"  No  !"  said  he  to  himself.  "  Not  yet !  Let  them  once  know 
that  Philip  lives,  and  that  this  is  he — remembering  too  that  he 
hath  been  wrongly  doomed — and  will  they  strive  so  bravely 
against  him  ?  will  they  not,  rather  this  brother  of  his,  strive  in 
his  behalf?  May  he  not  go  over  to  him  1  May  he  not  carry 
others  ?  In  the  moment  of  disaster,  who  clings  to  an  old  leader  ? 
What  numbers  will  gladly  seize  the  moment  to  pass  into  the 
embraces  of  the  successful  party  1  And  know  we  not  that  many 
have  sought  occasion  to  drop  away  upon  the  march,  and  wiving 
with  these  savage  women  to  grow  to  power  among  the  tribes  ] 
No  !  no !  I  must  hush  and  hide  this  damnable  discovery  close 
in  the  heart,  where  it  only  works  to  torture." 

Such  were  the  brief,  hurried,  and  natural,  but  unspoken  thoughts 
which  occurred  to  the  Adelantado,  when  he  beheld  his  knights 
enter  to  receive  their  orders.  De  Soto  could  not  throw  off  the 
savage  gloom  that  possessed  his  soul  and  filled  his  countenance, 
but  he  gave  it  an  expression  of  swift  ferocity. 

"  Well,  seflors,  you  are  ready.  It  is  time.  Let  us  now  to 
work,  with  all  our  soul  and  strength,  to  scourge  these  savages  to 
the  uttermost.  Before  the  sun  shall  set  this  day,  we  must  be  in 
in  possession  of  yonder  fortress.  If  we  fail,  our  day  has  ended  ! 
Do  you  heed  me,  all  1  While  this  sun  lasts  we  must  conquer 
yon  town,  and  hold  it  in  possession.  Yonder  forests," — and  he 
shuddered  as  he  pointed  to  them — "  harbor  ten  thousand  ene- 
mies, hateful  and  hating  us,  without  pity  or  affection ;  with  num- 
bers destined  to  hourly  increase,  pouring  in  ever  as  the  vultures 
throng  about  the  carcass.  Let  us  go  forth." 

They  were  soon  in  full  array,  and  in  the  field.  De  Soto  had 
already  matured  his  plans.  He  had  detailed  the  greater  and  bet- 
ter portion  of  his  cavaliers  for  the  defence  of  his  rear,  while  a 
chosen  body  assailed  the  fortress.  The  horsemen  were  particu- 
larly reserved,  the  better  to  avoid  the  shafts  shot  securely  from 
the  walls.  They  were  appointed  to  that  better  service  upon  the 


498  VASCONSELOS. 

plain  in  which  the  steed  can  exercise  the  chief  faculty,  that  of 
fleetness,  which  confers  upon  him  his  peculiar  uses  in  war. 

The  battle  was  resumed.  Tuscaluza  and  his  warriors  prepared 
for  the  Spaniards  along  the  walls.  Istalana  led  forth  his  troops 
from  the  forest,  and  against  their  rear.  He  was  encountered  by 
the  picked  chivalry  of  De  Soto  which,  in  separate  bodies  of  ten 
men  each,  occupied  the  plain  in  their  front,  and,  cased  in  armor — 
all  the  vital  parts  protected  except  the  eyes — offered  but  small 
marks  for  the  archery  of  the  red  men,  while  in  their  successive 
charges  they  swept  down  hundreds.  The  horse  was  more  vul- 
nerable, however,  though  some  pains  had  been  taken  to  protect 
him  in  the  more  exposed  and  sensitive  regions  of  his  body.  Ista- 
lana, or,  as  we  shall  henceforth  prefer  to  call  him,  Vasconselos, 
aimed  at  two  objects — to  bring  his  troops,  only  as  archers,  into 
full  play,  and  at  the  same  time  to  cover  them  as  much  as  possi- 
ble with  the  trees  of  the  forest  from  the  sweepins  charges  of  the 
horsemen.  But,  if  he  kept  the  cover  of  the  forest  wholly,  he 
failed  to  reach  the  cavalry  with  his  arrows,  the  plain  being  of 
such  extent;  and  not  to  drive  them  from  it,  was  to  leave  the 
garrison  without  succor,  or  diversion,  to  endure  the  whole  weight 
of  De  Soto's  assault.  He  accordingly  prepared  to  throw  a  body 
of  five  hundred  active  warriors,  good  with  spear  and  battle  axe, 
between  the  detachment  ofaavalry  in  front  of  him  and  the  forces 
with  which  De  Soto  assailed  the  walls,  while  the  rest  of  his  troops, 
covered  as  much  as  possible  by  the  forest,  kept  the  horse  in  full 
employment  with  their  arrows.  He,  himself,  on  foot,  prepared 
to  lead  his  spear-men  into  the  thickest  of  the  fight,  and  between 
the  two  divisions  of  the  Spanish  army. 

"  And  now,"  saith  our  old  Choctaw  chronicler,  "  the  glorious 
fight  began  once  more,  with  a  shock  as  of  many  thunderbolts. 
And  Soto,  of  Castile,  led  his  great  men  close  up  against  the 
walls  of  Mauvila;  and  the  great  king  confronted  him  there  with 
a  terrible  flight  of  arrows;  and  with  heavy  stones  he  drove  him 
back  from  the  fortress.  And  when  Soto,  of  Castile,  was  thus 
driven  back,  he  fell  upon  the  warriors  of  the  great  chief  Ista- 
lana, and  very  terrible  was  the  battle  that  ensued  between  these 
mighty  men  of  war.  But,  though  many  of  the  Spaniards  were 
slain  and  more  hurt,  yet,  by  reason  of  the  armor  of  tough  metal 
which  they  wore,  many  escaped,  who  else  had  been  done  to 
death,  by  the  valiant  strokes  of  Istalana  and  his  spearmen.  These, 
on  the  other  hand,  being  all  men  of  naked  valor,  were  sore 
stricken  by  the  Spanish  bolts  and  darts ;  and  the  wise  chieftain, 
Istalana,  when  that  he  beheld  how  the  battle  went  against  his 


MANY  WERE  SLAIN.  499 

people,  he  drew  them  cunningly  away  from  between  the  ranks 
of  the  Spaniards,  and  gave  them  shelter  for  a  season  among  the 
great  trees  of  the  forest.  And  De  Soto,  of  Castile,  again  strove 
with  the  great  king  against  the  walls  of  Mauvila,  and  his  axe-men 
toiled  to  cut  though  the  walls,  and  to  beat  down  the  gates  of  the 
fortress ;  and  a  second  time  were  they  driven  back,  sorely  smitten, 
because  of  the  heavy  stones  delivered  from  the  fortress.  And 
again  did  the  brave  Istalana  give  battle  to  the  retreating 
Spaniards,  and  to  those  who  fought  from  the  backs  of  the  mighty 
beasts.  And  the  battle  went  now  one  way,  and  now  the  other, 
and,  for  a  season,  neither  party  prevailed  in  the  conflict.  But 
great  was  the  loss,  and  grievous  the  blows  of  blood  which  were 
delivered  on  both  sides  among  the  champions.  And,  among  the 
people  of  Mauvila,  there  was  great  slaughter.  Many  cassiques 
of  Came  perished  in  valiant  agonies,  crying  to  the  gods  to  open 
the  blue  mansions  in  the  happy  valley,  and  to  send  for  them  the 
bright  maidens,  each  bearing  a  cheering  bowl  to  quench  the  thirst 
of  the  wearied  spirit.  The  mighty  Oolenoe  Ifisto  was  the  first 
to  fall,  having  slain  many  fues.  Then  Chinabee  Hirnantla  gave 
up  the  ghost,  wearuig  more  than  thirty  scalp  locks  upon  arm 
and  thigh  ;  and  there  were  many  more,  brave  like  these,  who 
sang  that  day  the  song  of  the  last  fight.  And  many  other  great 
chiefs  were  stricken  and  hurt  in  the  fighting  of  this  day.  Istalana, 
the  great  chief  himself,  was  stricken  twice,  but  he  said  nothing  of 
his  hurts,  while  he  gave  death  to  other  men  to  drink,  sorely 
against  the  will  of  him  who  hath  no  thirst. 

"  But  it  was  not  only  to  the  chiefs  of  Mauvila  that  the  hurts  and 
the  death  were  given.  The  Great  Chief  of  the  Spaniards,  Soto  of 
Castile,  felt  the  sharp  arrows  in  his  thigh  and  side  ;  but  he  was  not 
slain.  The  lying  prophet  of  the  pale  faces  was  scored  with  a  fly- 
ing shaft,  like  a  coward,  in  the  back.  But  he  lived,  that  men 
might  say,  this  is  the  mark  of  one  who  fled.  And  there  was  a 
goodly  youth,  a  kinsman  of  Soto,  of  Castile,  one  whom  they  call 
Carlos,  whose  throat  the  arrow  filled,  so  that  he  never  called  for 
drink  again.  And  many  were  the  warriors  and  chiefs  besides, 
for  whom  they  made  bitter  moaning  that  night  in  the  camp  of 
the  Spaniards. 

"  But  the  truth  demands  that  I  declare,  that,  on  the  third  as- 
sault upon  the  walls  of  Mauvila,  the  warriors  of  Soto,  of  Castile, 
prevailed.  And  they  prevailed  by  reason  of  the  fact,  that  the 
Great  King  was  hurt  with  a  lance  that  entered  his  bosom  even 
where  he  strove  with  a  great  warrior  at  the  gate  of  the  fortress. 
And  when  the  warriors  of  Mauvila  beheld  the  Great  King  fall, 
they  sent  up  a  mighty  cry.  And  the  women,  with  foolish  tonguea. 


600  VASCONSELOS. 

spread  it  along  the  walls  and  through  the  town,  that  the  Great 
King  was  slain,  even  Tuscaluza ;  but,  of  a  truth,  it  was  not  so. 
Grievous  was  his  hurt,  and  glorious,  since  it  was  made  upon  his 
open  breast,  in  full  front,  and  even  in  the  moment  when,  with  his 
mighty  stone-hatchet,  he  clove  the  brain  of  a  great  warrior  of 
the  Spaniards.  But,  nevertheless,  men  thought  him  slain ;  and 
when  his  people  bore  him  away  from  the  gate  to  a  place  of  safety 
without  the  walls,  and  into  the  forests  on  the  other  side — as  was 
counselled  by  the  prophet — then  the  women  lamented,  and  the 
foolish  warriors  broke  their  Weapons  and  fled  from  the  walls 
which  they  were  bade  to  defend,  and  went  hither  and  thither,  not 
knowing  what  to  do ;  and,  by  reason  of  this  folly,  the  followers 
of  Soto,  of  Castile,  broke  their  *way  through  the  walls,  and  beat 
down  the  gates,  and  their  great  captains,  'on  their  mighty  beasts, 
rode  headlong  through  the  streets  of  Mauvila,  smiting  as  they 
went.  Then  was  it  too  late,  when  our  warriors  hastily  caught  up 
their  arms,  and  renewed  the  fight. 

"  And  the  women  of  Mauvila  strove,  too,  in  the  ranks  of  battle, 
and  very  great  and  glorious  was  the  slaughter.  But  the 
Spaniards  prevailed  in  battle  against  our  p^ople,  and  when  this 
was  beheld  by  the  brave  women  of  Mauvila,  they  seized  bright 
torches  of  the  living  flame.  And  they  gave  it  wings ;  and  they 
sent  it  from  housetop  to  housetop ;  and  they  hid  it  away  in  the 
hearts  of  the  houses.  And  where  they  had  their  husbands  slain, 
they  flung  themselves  into  the  burning  houses,  and  they  wel- 
comed the  coming  of  the  Spaniards  with  arms  of  flame,  waving 
them  on,  as  they  passed  over  the  walls  and  through  the  gates 
with  songs  of  triumph  and  defiance.  It  was  a  day  of  rich 
blood.  And  the  people  of  Mauvila  left  for  the  Spaniards  only  a 
feast  of  famine,  and  music  of  agony  and  groans,  with  a  raging 
fire  to  quench  the  thirst  which  they  knew,  from  eating  at  such  a 
banquet.  The  brave  Tuscaluza,  the  son  of  the  Great  King,  was 
slain;  but  the  Great  King  himself  was  made  safe  in  the  big 
forests  lying  toward  Chickasah.  Thither  came  also  the  mighty 
chief  Istalana,  who  had  grevious  hurts  upon  his  breast,  upon  his 
face,  upon  his  arms  and  side.  Sorely  was  he  stricken ;  and 
they  brought  him  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  Tamenes  toward 
Chickasah,  and  the  princess  Coc,alla,  of  Cofachiqui,  tended  him, 
while  he  lay  hurt,  and  the  strange  black  page,  Juan,  watched  be- 
side him  nightly  when  he  slept." 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

"  He  bears 
A  tempest  which  his  mortal  vessel  tears. 

PERICLES.  . 

SUCH  was  the  terrible  battle  of  Mauvila.  The  Spaniards  had 
obtained  the  victory.  They  had  won  the  chief  fortified  city  of 
the  Mauvilians.  They  had  expelled  the  inhabitants  or  destroyed 
them.  Thousands  of  the  redmen  had  perished — not  so  many, 
by  thousands,  as  the  conquerors  claim  to  have  destroyed,  but  still 
the  havoc  had  been  terrible,  and  the  victims  were  five  times  as 
numerous  as  the  whole  army  of  De  Soto.  The  rash  valor  of  the 
Mauvilians,  their  naked  bosoms,  the  superiority  of  the  Spanish 
arms  and  armor,  had  naturally  rendered  the  defeat  a  massacre! 

But  the  triumph  of  the  invaders  was  dashed  by  their  own 
terrible  losses,  and  De  Soto  lamented  his  victory  in  the  language  of 
Pyrrhus.  Nay,  it  did  not  require  such  another  victory  to  leave 
the  Castilian  conqueror  undone.  He  was  already  undone,  and 
he  felt  it.  The  gloom  of  despair  was  on  his  soul.  His  face  wore 
a  perpetual  scowl.  His  language  was  harsh  to  all  when  he 
spoke.  He  was  no  longer  the  confident,  frank,  impulsive  cava- 
lier, who  could  sweetly  smile  upon  his  friends,  and  who  bore  in 
his  bosom  an  exulting  hope  and  consciousness  of  desert,  which 
filled  all  who  beheld  with  unvarying  auguries  of  success.  He 
was  now  stern,  savage,  suspicious  ;  distrustful  of  friends  and  for- 
tune ;  with  the  mortifying  conviction  that  he  had  not  only  failed, 
in  the  great  hopes  which  had  inspired  his  enterprise,  but  doomed 
to  other  failures,  involving  fame  as  well  as  fortune;  perilous  to 
life  as  to  success.  He  thought  of  the  noble  woman,  his  wife,  left 
behind  him  in  the  Government  of  Cuba,  and  bitterly  remembered 
that  between  her  and  himself  rolled  the  great  sea,  and  between 
that  sea  and  his  warriors,  spread  hundreds  of  miles  of  impene- 
trable forest,  every  thicket  of  which  harbored  its  hosts  of  im- 
placable and  sleepless  enemies. 

And  as  the  details  of  his  real  condition  met  his  ear,  the  gloom 
grew  deeper  upon  his  visage  and  within  his  soul.  Very  wretched 
was  the  condition  of  the  Spaniards  after  the  battle  of  Mauvila. 
More  than  two  hundred  of  them  had  been  slain  or  put  hors  de 
combat.  Scarcely  a  man  had  escaped  entirely  unhurt.  De  Soto 

501 


502  VASCONSELOS. 

himself  was  thrice  wounded,  and  though  not,  in  either  instance, 
severely,  yet  the  hurts  were  of  a  sort  to  goad,  to  mortify  his 
passions,  and  -to  vex  his  pride.  We  have  seen,  what  were  his 
personal  humiliations  also.  But  he  was  not  allowed  to  brood  on 
them.  The  condition  of  his  army  demanded  all  his  thoughts. 
His  soldiers,  covered  with  wounds,  were  attended  by  a  single 
surgeon,  and  he  was  at  once  slow  and  unskilful.  There  was 
neither  lint,  nor  linen,  nor  liniments ;  neither  medicines  nor 
bandages;  neither  ointments  nor  instruments;  not  even  clothing 
and  shelter.  The  fires  of  the  wild  Mauvilians  had  consumed  all 
the  stores  of  commissary  and  surgeon — all  the  food  and  physic — 
all  that  was  needful  for  the  healthy,  no  less  than  the  suffering  and 
sick.  The  dwellings  were  all  consumed,  and  but  a  poor  shelter 
was  found  in  the  miserable  tents  of  boughs  and  branches,  which 
could  be  raised  by  the  feeble  efforts  of  the  least  wounded  among 
the  Spaniards.  For  bandaging  wounds,  they  tore  the  shirts  from 
their  backs ;  to  procure  unguents  for  the  hurt,  the  slain  Indians 
were  torn  open,  and  the  fat  taken  from  their  bodies ;  the  slain 
horses  were  cut  up  and  their  flesh  preserved,  for  sustenance  for 
all.  Even  their  devotions  were  interrupted,  in  the  loss  of  the 
wine  and  wheaten  flour  which  they  had  used  in  the  performance 
of  the  mass ;  and  to  the  superstitious,  the  question  became  one  of 
serious  importance,  whether  bread  of  Indian  meal  might  be  em- 
ployed for  the  sacrament, — a  question  gravely  discussed  among 
them,  and  terminating  in  the  unfavorable  resolve,  that  it  was  not 
tolerated  by  the  canons  of  the  church.  When  to  the  real  physical 
miseries  of  their  situation,  we  add  those  of  their  spiritual  hunger, 
we  may  conjecture  the  terrible  gloom  which  overspread  the  en- 
campment of  the  Spaniards. 

This  gloom  of  his  followers  was  naturally  of  deeper  and  darker 
complexion  in  the  soul  of  De  Soto,  than  it  was  among  his  people. 
His  had  been  the  loftiest  ambition,  the  most  exulting  .hope.  His 
pride,  and  station,  and  responsibility,  were  greater  than  all  the 
rest.  He  was  proportionately  overwhelmed  in  the  common  catas- 
trophe. He  was  utterly  unmanned  by  his  reverses.  Not  that 
he  was  unwilling  to  fight  and  peril  him.self  as  before  ;  but  that  he 
was  no  longer  able  to  control  his  passions,  and  hide  his  infirmi- 
ties, and  develop  the  strength  and  resources  of  his  genius, 
moody  irritable  and  savage,  he  was  now  purposeless  in  his  aim, 
and  utterly  hopeless  of  favorable  events  in  his  future  progress. 
He  had  no  longer  the  heart  for  enterprise,  or  the  spirit  for  ad- 
venture ;  and,  for  eight  days,  he  lay  in  his  rude  and  Inadequate 
encampment,  among  the  ruins  of  Mauvila,  like  a  wounded  tiger, 
licking  his  wounds  in  his  jungle.  Meanwhile,  the  wounded  suf- 


ISOLATION    OF   SOTO.  503 

fercd,  or  recovered,  died  or  lived  ;  without  seeming  to  arouse  his 
active  sensibilities.  The  army,  under  his  gallant  cavaliers,  began 
slowly  to  repair  its  hurts,  and  to  recover,  after  a  fashion,  from  its 
maims  and  bruises.  But  it  was  the  skeleton  only  of  its  former 
strength,  and  symmetry  and  beauty.  The  despondency  of  their 
chief  oppressed  the  spirits  of  all.  Hope  had  deserted  them,  and 
they  now  only  sighed  for  the  opportunity  to  return  to  those  dis- 
tant homes  which  few  of  them  were  ever  destined  to  behold 
again. 

It  was  while  they  lay  thus,  and  suffered,  in  the  town  of  the 
Mauvilians, — groaning  with  their  hurts,  and  dreading  every 
moment  that  the  red  men  would  surround,  and  compel  them  to 
resume  the  struggle  to  which  they  felt  themselves  so  unequal, 
that  they  received  intelligence  which  was  calculated  to  cheer 
them  with  the  hope  of  escape  from  the  perilous  meshes  in  which 
their  enterprise  had  involved  them.  Tidings  reached  them,  un- 
expectedly, of  the  arrival,  at  Achuzi  (now  Pensacola)  of  certain 
ships  from  Cuba,  under  the  command  of  Gomez  Arias  and  Diego 
Maldonado.  The  moment  this  news  was  received,  both  officers 
and  men  began  to  calculate  the  distance  between  Mauvila  and 
Achuzi.  It  was — according  to  their  eager  estimate — but  eight 
days  journey  to  the  sea  coast;  and  all  hearts  began  to  cheer 
themselves  with  the  hope  of  soon  reaching  the  ships,  the  succor 
of  their  comrades,  and  finally  the  pleasant  country  which  all 
now  were  prepared  to  regret  that  they  had  so  idly  left.  No  one  , 
thought  to  remain  in  a  region  which  yielded  them  no  golden 
cities,  and  the  people  of  which  betrayed  such  implacable  hostility, 
such  indomitable  courage,  and  such  sanguinary  fierceness  of 
character.  They  discussed  the  matter  among  themselves.  They 
encouraged  each  other  with  their  new  born  hopes  of  escape  from 
a  country,  in  which  they  beheld  nothing  but  sleepless  and  bloody 
enemies — in  which  they  could  now  anticipate  nothing  but  disaster 
and  a  gloomy  fate  for  all.  These  resolves  and  desires  were  freely 
spoken.  They  were  not  confined  to  the  common  soldiers  ;  and  De 
Soto.  by  accident,  overheard  one  of  these  discussions,  in  which  the 
same  opinions  and  wishes  were  expressed  by  his  favorite  cavaliers. 

From  that  moment,  his  resolve  was  taken.  He  could  not  re- 
turn a  vagabond  to  Cuba.  He  who  had  gone  forth  in  such  state 
and  splendor,  could  not  crawl  back  in  the  sight  of  his  people,  a 
maimed  and  stricken  fugitive.  He  must  first  conquer.  He 
must  win  the  spoils  he  sought.  He  must  carry  back  the  proofs 
and  the  trophies  of  the  golden  cities  which  he  had  promised. 
He  still  had  faith  in  the  hidden  treasures  of  the  Apalachian.  He 
still  looked  to  the  conquest  of  a  semi-civilized  people,  such  as 


604  VASCONSELOS. 

those  of  Mexico  and  Peru,  the  overthrow  and  dominion  of  whom 
would  crown  the  close  of  his  life  with  glory,  and  redeem  and  re- 
pair the  hurts  of  character  and  credit  which  had  confessedly 
accrued  from  his  enterprise,  up  to  the  present  moment.  He 
resolved  to  confound  his  cowardly  followers,  and  to  baffle  all 
their  imbecile  calculations.  He  determined  that  they  should 
share  his  fortunes,  in  spite  of  all  their  fears.  He  did  not  suffer 
them  to  know  that  he  was  aware  of  their  secret  hopes.  He 
simply  gave  his  orders — to  turn  their  backs  upon  his  shipping,  and 
go  forward,  deeper,  deeper,  into  the  wild  abodes  of  the  savage 
Apalachian. 

His  cavaliers,  as  soon  as  they  heard  these  orders,  boldly  un- 
dertook to  expostulate  with  him  upon  them.  They  spoke  of 
the  sea,  of  the  shipping  at  Achuzi,  of  their  hopes  and  homes  in 
Cuba. 

"  Tell  me  not  of  sea,  or  ships,  or  Cuba !"  was  the  angry  reply 
of  the  Adelantado.  "  I  will  see  neither,  until  I  have  conquered 
Jhese  savage  Apalachians,  and  won  possession  of  their  great 
cities." 

They  would  still  have  expostulated.  "  There  were  no  great 
cities"  was  the  answer.  "  These  people  are  mere  savages.  Our 
people  despond.  They  have  not  the  heart  for  further  adventure. 
Their  hearts  are  set  only  on  returning  to  the  sea  coast,  and 
availing  themselves  of  the  shipping,  of  once  more  reaching  Cuba. 
They  are  already  discontent  with  the  delay.  They  will 
mutiny — ." 

"  Ha  !  mutiny  !  Tell  you  this  to  me  ?  Then  get  ye  ready  your 
executioner,  and  prepare  to  do  as  I  require,  for  by  the  Holy  Cross, 
so  long  as  I  breathe,  the  Vice-Gerent  here  of  our  Royal  Master, 
I  will  put  to  sharp  justice  the  soldier  who  shall  only  dare  to 
murmur.  Away,  Sir  Knights,  and  let  me  hear  no  more  of 
this." 

"  The  habitual  exercise  of  authority  had  imparted  to  De  Soto 
a  power  of  command,  which  was  admirably  seconded  by  a  sub- 
mission as  habitual,  as  well  among  his  cavaliers,  as  common 
soldiers.  The  obedience  of  the  one,  necessarily  enforced  that  of 
the  other.  The  army  was  put  under  marching  orders,  and,  with 
weary  footsteps  and  desponding  hearts,  the  remnant  of  the  army 
took  its  way  into  the  great  solitudes  once  more. 

But  the  one  purpose  of  progress,  in  De  'Soto's  mind,  was  un- 
directed by  that  aim  and  design  which  constitute  the  first  true 
essentials  of  successful  adventure  on  the  part  of  the  soldier. 
Disappointed  hitherto  in  the  results  which  followed  his  several 
enterprises,  he  knew  not  now  whither  to  direct  his  footsteps. 


"WHAT   OF   ISTALANA. 

From  this  moment,  his  only  labor  seemed  to  be  to  increase  the  dis- 
tance between  his  people  and  the  sea.  Haunted  by  the  dread  of  their 
desertion,  he  simply  hurried  forward,  on  a  route  that  perpetually 
changed  its  direction,  now  east,  now  west,  hither  and  thither,  but 
always  to  no  purpose.  He  knew  not,  nor  seemed  to  care  to 
know,  whither  he  sped.  Stern,  silent,  irritable,  he  scorned 
counsel  and  forbade  expostulation.  He  wandered  thus,  in 
weary  pilgrimage,  day  by  day,  passing  from  forest  to  forest, 
from  village  to  village,  fighting  wherever  the  red  men  crossed  his 
path — which  they  did  perpetually — and  fighting  always  without 
an  object.  One  is  forced  to  think,  seeing  how  erratic  was  his 
progress,  and  how  recklessly  he  incurred  all  perils,  that  his  real 
purpose  was  to  end  a  struggle  which  brought  him  vexation  only, 
and  a  life  which,  his  pride  taught  him,  was  dishonored  by  the  de- 
*eat  of  all  his  expectations. 

While  our  Spaniards  were  recreating  themselves  in  Mauvila, 
what  of  the  people  of  the  Great  King,  Tuscaluza  ?  what  of  the 
Portuguese  Knight,  whom  we  now  know  as  Istalana,  the  im- 
mediate confidant  of  the  Mauvilian  Cassique,  sorely  wounded 
in  the  final  battle  with  the  Spaniards.  Both  of  these  chiefs  were 
seasonably  borne  away  by  their  red  followers  to  a  place  of 
safety 'in  the  contiguous  forests.  As  these  proceedings  were  all 
transacted  with  the  greatest  secrecy,  by  a  people  practised  in  the 
utmost  subtleties  of  savage  warfare,  as  cunning  as  the  serpent, 
and  as  stealthy  as  the  cat,  the  Spaniards  never  dreamed  of  the 
vast  numbers,  that,  more  or  less  hurt,  were  carried  safely  from 
the  melee  ;  and  the  still  greater  numbers,  who  escaped  when  the 
conflict  went  too  decidedly  against  them.  The  Mauvilians  had 
lost  probably  three  thousand  warriors,  and  a  few  score  of  women 
had  perished  also  fighting  in  their  ranks  ;  but  a  numerous  army 
still  remained  to  the  Great  King,  even  of  those  engaged  at  Mau- 
vila ;  while  others  daily  poured  into  his  assistance,  led  by  the 
Cassiques  of  tributary  provinces.  Had  he  or  Istalana  been  able 
to  take  the  field,  the  Spaniards  had  never  been  suffered  to  rest  a 
moment  in  Mauvila ;  had  never  been  permitted  time  to  repair 
their  disasters  and  to  recruit  themselves  for  a  fresh  campaign. 
Had  their  quarters  been  beat  up  daily  and  nightly  with  incessant 
alarm  ;  had  their  foragers  been  cut  off  whenever  they  went  forth  ; 
it  is  probable,  that  the  eight  days  of  rest  at  Mauvila,  would  have 
been  so  many  days  of  struggle  and  starvation,  ending  in  their  utter 
annihilation.  They  were  then  in  no  condition  to  fight,  and  as 
little  to  endure. 

But,  in  the  wounds  and  incapacity  of  their  great  leaders,  the 
22 


506  VASCONSELOS. 

red  men  did  not  dare  to  venture  upon  the  enterprise  for  tin M •,- 
selves.  They  were  content  to  gather  and  prepare  themselves; 
to  provide  a  new  armory  ;  to  lay  in  supplies  of  provisions  ;  to 
guard  their  wounded  monarch  ;  and  watch  closely  all  the  move- 
ments of  the  Spaniards.  Tuscaluza  had  been  severely  hurt,  but 
the  red  men,  rarely  outraging  nature  with  the  too  frequently  im- 
pertinent pretensions  of  art,  were  good  nurses,  and  not  bad  sur- 
geons, in  that  day,  when  they  did  not  feel  their  own  deficiencies 
and  had  not  learned  to  succumb  to  the  genius  of  the  white  man. 
They  had  considerable  knowledge  of  pharmacy,  and  dealing  with 
green  wounds,  which  were  not  necessarily  mortal,  they  were 
singularly  successful.  The  conquering  people  have  borrowed 
many  good  lessons,  and  much  knowledge,  from  their  skill  in 
medicine. 

Of  course,  Istalana  shared  with  the  Great  King,  in  the  best  at- 
tentions of  his  people.  Nay,  he  had  probably  even  better  attend- 
ance, for  was  not  CoQalla  his  nurse,  and  was  not  Juan  nigh, 
jealous  of  her  cares,  and  watchful  of  every  opportunity  to  inter- 
pose his  own  '?  Vasconselos  had  suffered  from  several  wounds. 
He  had  been  brought  from  the  field  in  a  state  of  utter  insen- 
sibility. Borne  on  a  litter  through  the  forests  to  a  piace  of 
safety,  remote  from  the  scene  of  action,  he  had  undergone  a  long 
struggle  with  the  mortal  enemy  of  life.  Youth,  great  vigor  of 
constitution,  fond  and  sleepless  cares,  and  a  loving  solicitude  that 
neglected  nothing  ;  to  those  he  owed  his  recovery.  During  all 
his  sufferings,  through  a  long  insensibility,  fever  and  delirium, 
Cocalla  never  slept.  Ah  !  the  devotedness  of  the  loving  heart — 
the  loving  woman  !  How  it  galled  the  soul  of  Juan  to  see  her 
officious  tenderness,  when  he  could  not  interpose — when  he  dared 
not.  How  it  angered  him,  when  Cocjalla  bound  the  fever  balm 
to  the  forehead  of  the  unconscious  Knight — when  she  bathed  his 
hands  and  arms  in  cooling  waters  ;  when  she  applied  the  bruised 
herbs  to  his  wounded  side  and  bosom,  when  she  poured  the  cool- 
ing beverages  into  his  burning  lips,  when  she  sate  by  nim,  and 
lifted  his  head  upon  her  arms,  and  against  her  bosom,  and  mur- 
mured softly  in  his  ears,  her  fond,  exulting  consciousness — '*  oh  ! 
Philip  !  my  Philip." 

Then  would  the  page  chafe  with  vexation.  He  betrayed  his 
anger.  He  was  rude  to  Cogalla.  He  complained  even  of  her 
officious  zeal,  and  sleepless  attendance. 

And  CoQalla  pleaded  with  him  as  if  she  had  been  no  princess. 
She  knew  that  the  boy  loved  the  cavalier,  and  for  this  she 
forgave  him  all  his  offences.  It  was  quite  enough  with  her,  that 
the  rude  boy  was  devoted  to  his  master.  That,  she  saw.  She 


SORROW   OF  THE   PAGE.  507 

was  not  anxious  to  see  further.  But  she  said  to  Juan,  one  day, 
when  he  was  absolutely  insolent  ? 

"Why  does  the  page  of  Philip  grow  angry?  Doth  he  not 
love  his  master  ?  And  loving  Philip,  doth  he  not  see  that  Cogalla 
loves  him  too,  and  because  she  loves  him,  that  she  watches  him,  and 
tends  him,  and  dresses  his  wounds,  and  makes  his  couch  of  suffer- 
ing  soft  and  easy  ?  What  would  Juan  desire  but  to  make  well 
and  happy  his  master?  would  he  have  Cocalla  to  hate  Philip? 
Cocalla  will  not  hate  Philip  !  Co§alla  loves  Philip  with  her 
whole  heart.  She  loves  nothing,  nobody,  so  well  as  Philip." 

But  this  was  precisely  what  Juan  did  not  desire.  But,  to  this, 
what  could  he  answer  ?  He  could  only  turn  away,  and  conceal 
his  tears,  and  curse  his  fate,  that  suffered  other  hands  and  other 
cares  than  his  own,  to  nurse  and  tend,  and  minister  to  the  being 
whom  he  so  much  loved,  with  a  like  love  also.  Verily,  great  were 
the  tortures  of  the  page,  during  that  long  trial,  while  Vasconselos 
lay  wounded  and  insensible  upon  the  fringed  couch  of  the  beautiful 
princess,  and  so  long  as  she  alone  had  power  to  watch  beside 
him. 

But  gradually  both  Tuscaluza  and  Istalana  grew  better  from 
their  hurts,  and  the  eyes  of  the  Portuguese  Knight  opened  to  a 
knowledge  of  his  friends  ;  and  he  took  the  hand  of  Cocalla  within, 
his  own, — and  the  hand  of  Juan  too ;  as  they  stood  on  opposite 
sides  of  the  couch;  and  he  kissed  the  hand  of  Cocalla;  while  the 
princess  laughed  merrily  with  joy,  and  kissed  his  forehead  in 
return.  But  as  for  Juan,  he  could  only  turn  away,  and  weep. 
The  joy  of  the  princess  was  the  sorrow  of  the  page. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

"  Set  we  forward  :— 
Never  was  a  war  did  cease, 
Ere  bloody  hands  were  washed." 

CYSTBEU.V*.     • 

THE  warriors  of  the  Apalachian  had  been  set  in  motion,  by  the 
impatient  Tuscaluza,  before  Vasconselos  was  able  to  take  the 
field.  His  pride  made  him  impatient.  Advised  of  every  step 
in  the  progress  of  the  Spaniards,  he  had  commanded  that  their 
steps  should  be  followed  ;  and,  taking  counsel,  for  awhile,  from 
Istalana,  he  had  pursued  a  cautious  policy,  which  studiously  fore- 
bore  risking  anything  on  a  general  battle.  His  present  chief 
warrior  was  Chicaza,  who  controlled  an  immense  district  of 
country,  and  could  bring  at  least  five  thousand  warriors  into  the 
field.  The  progress  of  De  Soto  had  now  brought  him  into  the 
territories  of  this  Chief.  To  him,  Tuscaluza — preparing  himself 
to  take  the  field — had  sent  instructions  to  harass  the  Spaniards, 
cut  off  detachments  and  supplies,  whenever  occasion  offered,  but, 
on  no  account,  to  engage  in  general  action.  It  was  the  fortune  of 
the  Great  King  to  Apalachia,  to  possess  great  Captains,  who,  like 
the  ambitious  Chiefs  among  more  civilized  nations,  have  too 
much  self-esteem  to  hearken  to  the  words  of  counsel,  or  even  to 
obey  the  commands  of  their  superiors  always.  Chicaza  ventured 
battle  with  the  enemy,  and  was  defeated.  But  not  till  a  dread- 
ful massacre  had  taken  place,  as  terribly  murderous  to  the  red 
men  as  that  of  Mauvila,  and  quite  as  fatal  to  the  Spaniards. 

De  Soto  had  possessed  himself  of  the  village  of  Chicaza. 
The  first  act  of  the  fierce  Cassique  was  the  destruction  of  his  own 
town.  He  decreed  it  to  the  flames.  It  was  a  bitter  cold  night 
in  February,  the  north  wind  blowing  wildly,  and  dark  clouds 
scudding  across  the  sky,  when  the  Cassique  led  his  forces,  in 
three  separate  bodies,  to  the  attack.  The  Spaniards  knew  not  Oi 
their  danger,  till  the  dwellings,  in  which  they  had  sheltered  them- 
selves, were  all  in  flames.  Scouts  and  sentinels,  officers  and 
men,  had  been  alike  neglectful  of  duty.  The  red  men  stole  into 
an  unwatched  camp.  They  gave  no  alarm,  until  they  had  laid 
their  inflammable  torches  beneath  the  cottages,  and  until  their 
shafts,  tipped  with  lighted  matches,  had  swept  to  the  straw-roofed 

(608) 


BATTLE   OF  CHICAGO.  509 

lodges,  and  fastened  themselves  inextricably  among  the  reeds. 
Then  did  the  war-whoop  sound  the  signal  for  assault ;  then  did 
the  wild  conchs  deliver  their  mournful  blasts,  and  the  wooden 
drums,  and  rattles  of  the  Chicazas  resound  fearfully  about  the 
beleaguered  habitations.  Then  did  the  red  men,  three  thousand 
in  number,  rush  to  the  battle,  surrounding  the  village  on  every 
side,  and  dealing  their  effectual  arrows  whenever  the  Spaniards 
sallied  forth. 

We  must  not  enter  into  the  details  of  this  battle.  We  can 
only  give  results.  The  red  men  were  beaten, — that  is,  they  were 
driven  off,  for  shelter,  to  their  thickets^  and  several  hundred  of 
them  were  slain.  But  the  victory,  like  that  of  Mauvila,  was  one 
over  which  the  Spaniards  could  only  groan,  not  exult !  Fifty 
of  their  soldiers  had  been  slain,  with  several  hidalgos  among 
them ;  as  many  horses  had  perished  also,  and  a  like  number 
were  more  or  less  hurt.  At  one  time,  but  for  Nuno  de  Tobar  and 
Andres  de  Vasconselos,  the  Spaniards  must  have  been  utterly 
destroyed.  An  entire  company  fled  in  panic  from  the  scene  of 
action,-  and  were  brought  back  by  Tobar.  The  Portuguese 
captain  and  his  Veterans,  in  fact,  were  the  true  saviors  of  the 
army.  When  the  morrow's  sun  shone  upon  the  work,  the  hot 
tears,  spite  of  himself,  gushed  forth  from  the  eyes  of  the  haughty 
Adelantado,  who  felt,  with  the  onward  progress  of  each  day,  how 
nearer  he  approached  the  complete  annihilation  of  all  his  hopes. 
His  gloom  and  vexation  of  spirit  increased  the  gulph  between 
himself  and  his  followers.  He  had  for  them  no  words  of  patience. 
He  was  guilty  of  daily  injustice.  He  mortified  their  pride  by 
his  haughty  disregard  to  their  sufferings  and  wishes ;  he  dis- 
couraged their  sympathies,  by  the  rejection  of  all  communion 
with  them.  His  best  officers,  among  them  Nuno  de  Tobar  and 
Andres  de  Vasconselos,  approached  him  with  entreaty  and  exhor- 
tation. But  the  presence  of  the  latter — of  both  in  fact — only 
reminded  him  painfully  of  one,  to  whom  he  ascribed  the  ruin  of 
his  fortunes.  Though  he  named  not  Philip  de  Vasconselos  to 
either — though,  in  their  ignorance  of  what  he  knew,  he  offered 
them  no  clues  to  the  secret  origin  of  his  own  agonies,  he  yet  re- 
plied to  them  with  a  bitterness  that  seemed  to  take  for  granted 
their  perfect  knowledge  of  his  secret. 

"  Oh,  ye  do  well  to  exhort  and  to  entreat,  and  counsel.  Why 
do  ye  not  go  further?  Why  not  command.  Ye  know  not  the 
presence  of  this  fiendish  fate  that  pursues  our  steps.  Ye  know 
not  the  damnable  presence  that  haunts  our  fortunes  with  daily 
terrors.  Yet  ye  wear  his  aspect.  Ye  are  innocent  forsooth; 


510  VASCONSELOS. 

Yet  why  do  ye  go  with  him  in  your  hearts,  that  ye  may  the 
better  pluck  down  ruin  on  my  head." 

"  What  means  his  Excellency,"  demanded  the  confounded 
Nuno  de  Tobar.  The  scowling  eyes  of  De  Soto  were  set  upon 
Andres  de  Vasconselos.  The  latter  proudly  answered,  and  with 
a  calm  cold  sterness  of  manner,  which  made  the  resemblance 
between  himself  and  brother  much  more  evident  than  ever. 

"  I  know  not  what  your  Excellency  designs  to  say,  for  a  truth 
all  that  you  have  spoken  sounds  strange  and  unmeaning  in  mine 
ears  ;  but  if  their  be  any  purpose  to  charge  aught  of  our  disasters 
upon  my  neglect  of  duty  or  want  of  loyalty,  then  do  I  demand 
that  you  name  my  accuser,  and  my  sword  shall  answer  to  his  false- 
hood." 

"  Even  thus  he  spoke* !  Thus  he  looked  !  Thus  he  defied  me 
ever  !"  cried  De  Soto,  his  memory  still  retaining  full  recollection  of 
the  reserve  and  self-esteem  which  in  the  case  of  Philip  de  Vascon- 
selos had  always  offended  the  amour  propre  of  the  Castilian. 

"  Of  whom  speaks  the  Adelantado  ?"  demanded  Tobar. 

"  Of  whom  !  Jesu  !  one  would  think  you  had  slept,  without 
hearing  the  cries  of  war,  without  feeling  the  shock  of  battle, 
without  scathing  in  the  scorching  flames  that  swept  over  us  by 
night,during  the  last  thirty  days  of  strife  and  honor." 

Such  was  the  sudden  burst  of  seeming  astonishment,  with  which 
the  adelantado  replied  to  his  lieutenant.  He  continued,  ardently 
and  wildly — 

"  Of  whom  should  I  speak,  but  of  that  insolent  Jate  which  has 
dogged  our  steps  from  Chiala,  and  which  hangs  over  us  with  ruin. 
Oh  !  ye  know  not.  Ye  are  blind.  Ye  will  remain  blind  until  the 
knife  is  at  your  throats,  and  there  is  no  means  left  ye  for  escape. 
Hark  ye  !  Ye  have  seen  De  Soto  overthrown,  for  the  first  time 
overthrown,  in  single  combat ;  man  opposed  to  man,  lance  to  lance 
steed  to  steed.  And  ye  have  seen  all  this  achieved  by  a  naked 
savage  of  the  Apalachian !  No  mail  upon  his  breast,  no  helmet 
upon  his  brow,  no  crest  upon  gleaming  shield,  declaring  his  deeds 
in  war.  Yet  he  had  a  name.  Once  he  had  crest  and  shield,  and 
cuirass.  Ha  !  Ha !  A  red  savage  !  and  ye  thought  it  was  a  mere 
savage,  a  naked  Apalachian  of  the  hills,  whose  lance  could  foil  that 
of  Hernan  De  Soto,  whose  charge  and  thrust  could  roll  the  Cas- 
tilian warrior  into  the  dust.  Oh !  blind  !  Hark  ye !  It  was  no 
red  man  no  Apalachian,  though  wearing  his  semblance.  It  was 
this  accursed  Fate,  I  tell  you,  that  pursues  us  now,  that  will  still 
pursue  us,  that  will  feed  upon  us  all,  even  as  the  vulture  and  the 
wolf  glean  among  our  bones  bleaching  in  the  wilderness.  But  I 
will  not  fall  in  vaiii !  There  will  be  a  bloody  issue  yet.  His  crest 


DE   SOTO'S   FATE   REAPPEAKS.  511 

against  mine,  and  so  help  me,  Blessed  Jesu,  as  I  shall  yet  plant  a 
fatal  stroke  of  the  battle-axe  between  his  accursed  eyes — that  Fate 
of  mine  !  He  shall  not  overthrow  me  quite.  In  my  fall,  ye  shall 
behold  his  also  !  ay,  ay  !  but  a  little  while.  But  a  few  days  now — - 
so  gentlemen,  get  ye  ready  for  march,  away." 

The  officers  stared  aghast.  The  mind  of  De  Soto  was  evi- 
dently affected.  His  brain  was  wild  and  fevered ;  and  such  for 
several  days  continued  to  be  the  mood  which  prevailed  with  him, 
and  the  manner  of  his  speech.  But  his  inflexible  will  was  still 
active  and  comrmnding,  and  sufficed  for  authority.  He  drove 
his  reduced  regiments  still  forward,  after  a  very  brief  delay, 
spent  in  repairing  swords  and  armor,  and  giving  rest  to  the 
wounded.  But  dreadful  were  the  su^Terings  of  the  troops.  The 
winter  was  very  cold,  and,  dreading  the  torches  of  the  red  men, 
they  could  no  longer  venture  to  occupy  the  villages. 

Tuscaluza  and  Istalana  were  now  both  in  the  field  once  more, 
and  the  authority  of  the  latter  prevailed  with  the  Great  King. 
The  redrnen  were  no  longer  so  confident  of  their  prowess  as  to 
risk  a  general  action.  They  contented  themselves  with  guerilla 
warfare.  They  hung  upon  the  wings,  and  in  the  rear  of  the 
Spaniards,  harrassing  them  at  every  step.  They  encountered 
them  in  front  with  sudden  darts,  whenever  the  thickets  enabled 
them  to  cover  themselves  readily  from  the  cavalry.  De  Soto, 
maddening  with  every  day's  experience,  with  fever  burning  high 
in  his  temples,  and  uncicatrized  wounds  scalding  him  beneath  his 
armor,  grew  more  savage  in  his  moods,  and  more  and  more 
persuaded  himself  that  a  Fate  hung  above  his  banner,  which 
should  finally  swoop  down  in  vengeance,  burying  it  in  blood  for- 
ever. With  such  a  superstition  working  in  his  soul,  he  was  no 
longer  the  great  Captain,  who  had  won  eminent  position  in  arms, 
with  a  glory  second  not  even  to  that  of  Cortes  and  Pizarro. 
He  was  now  moody  and  capricious,  unstable  of  resolve, 
changeable  of  purpose,  without  purpose  in  fact,  and  wandering, 
like  a  vagrant  with  his  army,  to  and  fro,  as  the  winds  blew  and 
the  waters  ran. 

At  length  they  told  him  of  a  red  man  seen  on  horseback,  even 
then  in  sight  of  the  army,  though  at  a  distance. 

"  Ha !"  he  cried — "  It  is  the  Fate  !  He  seeks  me  ;  we  shall 
meet  once  more !  we  shall  meet !  we  shall  end  it  soon.  Ha !  Ha ! 
now  shall  we  see  !" 

And  he  bade  them  help  buckle  on  his  armor,  and  he  rode  forth 
at  the  head  of  his  army,  and  lo  !  upon  a  little  eminence,  there 
stood  the  mounted  warrior  of  the  Apalachian,  as  if  awaiting  him. 

"  Now,"  cried  De  Soto  to  his  followers — "  Now,  do  ye  keep 


512  VASCONSELOS. 

back,  while  ye  see  me  transfix  this  insolent  enemy — this  Fate 
that  haunts  my  footsteps  to  destroy — with  but  a  single  thrust  of 
my  good  spear.  Ho !  Sant  lago,  to  the  rescue  !" 

And  with  the  famous  slogan  of  Spanish  battle,  the  maddened 
cavalier  dashed  forward  to  the  assault. 

Meanwhile,  as  the  Spaniards  clearly  saw,  the  red  warrior  wel- 
comed the  encounter ;  for  he  waved  his  long  lance  aloft  in  the 
sunlight,  and  he,  too,  advanced  as  if  glad  to  engage  in  the  mortal 
struggle  with  the  noble  Castilian.  But  it  was  no  part  of  the 
policy  of  the  Spanish  knights  or  soldiers  to  suffer  the  Adelantado 
to  peril  himself  in  single  combat,  in  his  present  diseased  and 
feeble  state.  Besides,  they  had  seen  the  wonderful  and  unac- 
countable prowess  which  th£  red  warrior  had  shown  on  horseback 
They  naturally  concluded  the  one  before  them  to  be  the  same 
who  had  already  overthrown  their  leader,  and  they  began  to  share 
in  the  superstitions  which  he  had  taught  them  to  respect.  They 
dashed  forward  in  a  body  to  the  support  of  De  Soto,  and,  with 
their  approach,  the  strange  warrior  of  Apalachia  meltea  irom 
sight,  man  and  horse,  into  the  dim  shadows  of  the  impenetrable 
forest. 

"  Whither  went  he  ?  "  demanded  the  Adelantado.  "  Did  the 
earth  swallow  him  ?  Did  ye  see  him  ride  away  ?" 

"  Verily,"  said  one,  "  he  disappeared  as  suddenly  as  he  came  ! 
We  saw  not  how  !  Perhaps  into  the  forest." 

"  But  had  he  not  been  a  fiend  from  hell,  could  he  have  sped 
from  sight  unseen — unheard  ?  " 

The  knights  crossed  themselves  solemnly,  and  each  muttered 
to  himself  a  prayer. 

"  It  is  the  Fate — my  Fate  !  "  exclaimed  De  Soto  as  they  led 
him  back  ;  "  but  I  shall  cross  weapon  with  him  yet !  Sant  lago 
against  the  Fiend,  my  friends  !  I  will  conquer  mine  enemy  !" 

Days  passed  ;  the  Spaniards  still  pressed  forward  ;  still  har- 
assed by  their  sleepless  enemies,  and  unable,  with  all  their  arts, 
to  bring  the  wily  red  men  to  a  general  action.  But  De  Soto  was 
told  of  a  fortress  into  which  Chicaza,  the  Cassique,  had  thrown 
himself,  upon  the  very  borders  of  his  province,  and  where  he 
appeared  preparing  to  defend  himself.  The  news  seemed  to  con- 
centrate all  the  energies  and  purposes  of  De  Soto.  It  gave  him 
a  definite  purpose.  The  fortress  was  called  Alabama,  and  stood 
upon  the  banks  of  the  Yazoo  river.  The  garrison  was  large. 
The  fortress  was  strong  and  built  like  that  of  Mauvila.  The 
Adelantado  at  once  led  his  army  against  it ;  clouds  of  the  red  men, 
under  Tuscaluza  and  Istalana,  hanging  upon  his  wings  and  rear. 
A  terrible  fight  ensued ;  the  infantry  of  the  Spaniards  assailing 


DESPAIR   OF  DE   SOTO.  513 

the  fortress,  while  their  cavalry  was  required  to  defend  their  rear 
against  the  forest  rangers  that  hovered  on  their  flanks.  The 
Spaniards  were  again  victorious,  at  the  usual  price  of  victory. 
They  lost  some  twenty  of  their  bravest  soldiers.  The  loss  of 
the  red  men  was  more  severe,  but  not  such  as  the  superlatively 
extravagant  chroniclers  of  their  people  would  have  us  believe.  In 
fact,  the  defence  of  the  fortress  was  only  one  of  those  modes 
which  the  policy  of  the  Apalachians  taught  them  to  employ,  by 
which  gradually  to  waste  and  exhaust  the  strength  of  the  in- 
vaders. They  did  not  expose  themselves  unnecessarily;  those 
who  fought  without  the  fortress  had  the  woods  for  a  convenient 
shelter,  with  a  thousand  avenues  open  to  their  light-heeled  rangers 
for  flight,  while  they  were  almost  impenetrable  to  the  cavalry  of 
their  enemies.  The  garrison,  on  the  other  hand,  when  closely 
pressed  on  three  sides  of  the  fortress,  simply  leapt  the  river,  and 
swam  over  to  the  other  side.  In  this  conflict,  both  De  Soto  and 
Philip  de  Vasconselos  were  again. wounded,  but  neither  severely. 
A  snare  was  laid  by  the  Spanish  knights  for  taking  the  mysterious 
horseman  of  the  Apalachians ;  but  the  plan  was  badly  conceived, 
or  badly  managed.  It  was  suspected,  and  Istalana  fought  on  foot, 
with  battle-axe  and  macana.  Once  he  came  nearly  to  blows  with 
De  Soto,  and,  but  for  the  sudden  fluctuations  of  the  combat,  would 
have  succeeded  in  his  efforts  to  do  so.  A  press  of  knights  sud- 
denly threw  a  wall  of  iron  and  defensive  spears  between  him  and 
his  prey,  and  he  was  baffled.  The  red  men  melted  away  from 
before  the  Spaniards,  even  as  the  morning  mists  before  the  sun, 
satisfied  with  what  was  done,  and  leaving  to  their  enemies  but  a 
barren  conquest. 

The  event  of  this  battle  was  to  confirm  De  Soto  in  the  bitter- 
ness of  his  moods,  and  that  strange  phrenzy — not,  however,  un- 
natural— which  had  taken  possession  of  his  brain.  He  was  a 
terribly  stricken  man,  and  his  mind  frequently  wandered,  while 
his  frame  seemed  no  longer  capable  of  that  hardy  endurance  ;  was 
certainly  no  longer  seen  to  exhibit  that  elastic  energy,  which  had 
hitherto  distinguished  it  in  every  progress.  But  still  he  pivssi-d 
his  people  forward,  heedless  whither,  except  that  he  always  relig- 
iously strove  to  leave  the  sea  behind  him.  He  dared  not  con- 
template the  sea.  He  dared  not  move  the  heads  of  his  columns 
in  that  direction,  lest  he  should  so  madden  his  followers  as  to  be 
unable  to  control  their  future  course.  They  had  too  fully  shown 
him  the  lingering  passion  in  their  hearts  to  return  ;  and  this  return 
was  what  his  pride  could  not  contemplate.  Failing  to  conquer 
as  he  had  promised,  he  preferred  to  bury  his  fortunes  and  his 

22* 


514  VASCONSELOS. 

shame  together  in  the  depths  of  the  wilderness.     He  was  a  fine 
example  of  the  terrible  selfishness  of  arhbition. 

The  erratic  progress  of  De  Soto  at  length  brought  him  to  the 
banks  of  the  Mississippi.  His  was  the  first  European  eye,  ac- 
cording to  the  authentic  history  in  our  possession,  which  ever  be- 
held the  vast,  turbid  and  wondrous  streams  of  the  "  Father  of 
Waters."  De  Soto  gazed  upon  them  with  but  little  interest. 
He  dreamed  not  of  the  glorious  territories  which  they  watered. 
He  saw  not,  through  the  boundless  vistas  of  the  future,  the  nu- 
merous tribes  who  should  dwell  upon  their  prolific  borders, 
crowning  them  with  the  noblest  evidences  of  life,  and  with  the 
loveliest  arts  of  civilization.  The  spirit  of  the  Adelantado  was 
crushed.  The  fires  of  ambition  were  quenched  in  his  bosom. 
His  heart  was  withered  :  his  hope  was  blasted  forever.  He  was 
now  a  dying  man;  not  exactly  a  maniac,  but  with  a  mind  ill  at 
ease,  disordered,  vacant,  capricious  ;  striving  with  itself:  weary, 
and  longing  only  for  the  one  blessing,  which  he  had  never  suffered 
himself  to  enjoy  ; — Peace  !  His  heart  did  not  exactly  crave  a  res- 
toration to  his  home  in  Cuba,  but  the  image  of  the  noble  wom- 
an, his  wife,  rose  frequently,  reproachful  in  his  sight.  He  had 
loved  her,  as  fervently  as  he  could  have  loved  any  woman  ;  but, 
in  the  ambitious  soul,  love  is  a  very  tributary  passion.  It  craves 
love,  but  accords  little  in  return.  Its  true  passion  is  glory  ! 

We  have  foreborne  a  thousand  details  of  strife,  anxiety,  dread  and 
suffering,  which  the  Spaniards  were  doomed  to  experience  before 
they  reached  the  Mississippi.  They  were  haunted  by  the  perpetual 
terrors  of  the  Apalachians.  Tuscaluza  and  his  Portuguese  Lieu- 
tenant Istalana  gave  them  no  respite.  They  crossed  the  Mississip- 
pi. They  penetrated  the  country  of  the  Kaskaskias,  and  still  they 
were  under  the  eye  and  the  influence  of  the  Great  King  of  the 
Apalachians.  The  terrors  of  his  name  met  them  on  every  side. 
The  powers  of  his  arm  smote  them  in  all  their  progresses.  "  The 
Fate!  The  haunting  and  pursuing  Fate!  Oh!  Philip  de  Vascon- 
seloo  !"  cried  De  Soto  to  himself — "  thou  art  terribly  avenged. 
Would  that  we  could  meet,  mine  enemy  !  would  that,  alone,  we 
stood  naked,  front  to  front,  on  the  borders  of  this  great  heathen 
river,  spear  to  spear,  and  none  to  come  between.  Then,  then  ! 
Thy  spear  or  mine !  Thy  fate  or  mine  !  I  have  wronged  thee, 
Philip  de  Vasconselos,  but  1  should  slay  thee  nevertheless. 
Verily,  thou  art  terribly  avenged.  I  have  wronged  thee,  but 
what  had  these  done  to  thee,  thy  Christian  brethren,  that  thou 
should'st  decree  their  destruction  also  ?  Yet  thou  shalt  not ! 


SACRED   RITES   IN  VAIN.  515 

Sant  lago !  there  shall  come  an  hour  when  thou  shalt  be  delivered 
into  my  hands." 

The  griefs,  the  sufferings  of  De  Soto  prompted  a  revival  of  his 
religious  enthusiasm.  He  commanded  that  a  pine  of  gigantic 
height  should  be  hewn  into  the  form  of  a  cross.  He  had  it  plant- 
ed with  solemn  ceremonials  upon  the  banks  of  the  stream,  and 
consecrated  its  inauguration  with  great  solemnity,  and  with  pro- 
pitiatory sacrifices.  His  secret  thought  was  to  persuade  the 
blessing  influences  to  resist  and  defeat  the  terrors  of  that  fiend, — 
that  Fate, — with  which  he  now  believed  himself  to  be  pursued. 
Thus  then,  more  than  three  hundred  years  ago,  the  emblem  of 
Christian  faith  towered  above  the  Father  of  Waters,  and  Chris- 
tian rites  consecrated  his  mighty  billows  as  they  hurried  with 
glad  tidings  to  the  sea. 

But  these  solemn  ceremonials  compelled  no  friendly  auguries. 
The  further  marches  of  De  Soto  only  brought  him  to  the  bloody 
embrace  of  newer  enemies.  How  the  arms  and  influence  of 
the  Apalachians  pursued  him  wherever  he  sped — how  they  roused 
against  him  the  warriors  of  Capaha,  Tula  and  othertribes  ;  what 
were  the  combats,  what  the  losses,  the  surprises,  the  fears,  the  suf- 
ferings of  the  Spaniards,  in  their  daily  progresses,  may  be  faintly- 
gathered  from  their  own  meagre  chronicles.  Incessant  strifes, 
sleepless  nights,  weary  marches,  wounds  and  toil,  these,  with  final 
mutiny  among  his  own  followers,  utterly  broke  down  the  soul  of 
De  Soto,  and  took  from  him  all  his  strength.  Let  it  suffice  that 
the  noble  Castilian  at  last  consented  to  retrace  his  steps.  The 
decision  came  too  late  for  his  own  safety.  But  he  despatched  a 
small  force,  following  the  great  river,  with  the  hope  to  find  the 
sea  at  no  great  distance.  Meanwhile,  warring  at  every  step  with 
new  enemies,  De  Soto  planted  himself  at  length  at  a  village  which 
he  had  captured,  called  Guachoya,  on  the  western  banks  of  the 
Mississippi.  Here  he  prepared  to  build  brigantines,  and  make 
his  way  out  of  a  country  in  which  death  hunted  forever  at  his 
heels,  and  an  angry  Fate  welcomed,  with  a  constant  defeat  of 
hope,  wherever  he  ventured  to  plant  his  footsteps. 


CHAPTER  L. 

"Last  scene  of  all 
That  ends  this  strange  eventful  history." 

SHAKSPEARE. 

OUR  previous  narrative  of  events  has  brought  us  to  the  open- 
ing of  the  summer  of  the  year  1542.  We  have  reached  the 
melancholy  close  of  all  those  glorious  prospects,  and  triumphant 
hopes,  with  which  Hernando  de  Soto  left  the  shores  of  Cuba,  for 
the  country  of  the  savage  Apalachian.  He  was  a  subdued  and 
broken-hearted  man ;  humbled  in  spirit,  mortified  in  pride, 
ruined  in  fortune.  He  had  survived  all  his  hopes.  Despair  had 
taken  possession  of  his  soul.  To  crown  his  misery,  physical 
suffering  was  superadded  to  his  griefs  of  mind,  and  wounds,  and. 
travail,  fatigue  and  fever,  had  combined  to  prostrate  the  iron 
frame  of  him,  who,  in  the  pride  of  muscular  vigor,  had  never 
dreamed  that  any  toil  or  trial  should  have  forced  him  to  succumb. 
Nothing  short  of  this  utter  prostration  of  his  physical  strength 
and  energies,  would  ever  have  compelled  him  to  yield  the  point 
to  Fate — would  ever  have  moved  him  to  listen  to  the  entreaties  of 
his  followers — now  urged  with  a  stern  resolution  that  would  no 
longer  brook  denial,  to  turn  back  from  the  forests  to  the  sea, 
and  endeavor  once  more,  to  regain  the  shores  of  that  beautiful 
island,  which,  even  the  proud  spirit  of  De  Soto  himself,  be- 
moaned in  secret,  with  a  fond  and  fearful  anxiety.  On  the  banks 
of  the  vast  and  lonely  Mississippi,  occupying  the  Indian  village 
of  Guachoya,  the  Adelantado  gave  his  orders  for  the  construction 
of  a  couple  of  brigantines,  such  as  would  enable  him  to  seek  the 
sea. 

His  people  set  themselves  to  this  work,  with  the  eagerness  of 
men,  to  whom  the  fruition  of  all  their  hopes  is  promised.  While 
bodies  of  them  were  engaged  felling  and  seasoning  timber,  others 
scoured  the  country,  seeking  adventures  and  provisions;  and 
above  all,  to  prevent  the  too  near  approach  of  the  swarming 
hordes  of  red  men,  by  whom,  ever  since  their  approach  to  the 
territories  of  Tuscaluza,  their  fortunes  had  been  followed.  That 
Fate,  as  De  Soto  himself  esteemed  it — which  had  hung  upon 
their  steps  and  striven  against  them,  with  a  bitter  hostility  from 
the  moment  when  Vasconselos  was  lost  to  the  Castilian  columns, 
and  Istalana  suddenly  sprang  into  existence,  as  the  leader  of  those 

(516) 


DE  SOTO  COWED  BY  HIS  FATE.        517 

of  the  Apalachian,  was  still  present,  still  a  haunting  terror, 
still  making  itself  felt  unseen,  still  cutting  oft'  detachments, 
striking  at  posts,  beating  up  the  bivouac,  carrying  off,  or  smiting 
down,  the  straggler,  and  shewing  itself  as  resolute  as  before,  in 
its  evident  purpose  to  root  out  and  utterly  destroy  the  invaders. 
Tuscaluza's  power  and  influence  were  everywhere  brought  to 
serve  this  Fate  and  promote  this  terrible  purpose.  His  runners 
traversed  the  whole  country,  passing  from  tribe  to  tribe,  bringing 
tidings  of  the  Spaniards  where  they  came ;  of  their  bloody 
character,  selfish  treachery,  the  power  of  their  arms,  the  grasping 
ferocity  of  their  desires.  The  Captains  of  Tu?caluza  presented 
themselves  as  volunteers  in  the  conduct  of  remote  tribes.  His 
troops,  as  principals  or  auxiliaries,  were  to  be  found  carrying  the 
banner  of  the  Great  King  ;  with  its  bright  ground  of  yellow,  and 
its  three  broad  stripes  of  blue  ;  a  sign  that  now  waved  ominously 
in  the  eyes  of  our  Adelantado,  whenever  it  appeared.  It  had 
been  to  him  the  omen  of  evil  always,  and  he  trembled  in  his 
secret  soul  when  he  beheld  it.  He  associated  it  ever  with  the 
aspect  of  that  mysterious  warrior  of  the  red  men — mysterious  to 
his  followers,  but  too  well  known  to  himself,  by  whom  he  had  been 
overthrown  in  single  combat !  That  overthrow  rankled  in  his 
soul,  but  it  also  tended  to  disarm  his  spirit.  De  Soto  was  cowed 
by  his  Fate  !  The  forest  chieftains  sent  him  insolent  messages, 
defying  his  arms  and  challenging  him  to  combat.  Once,  and  such 
defiance  would  have  spurred  him  to  the  most  desperate  achieve- 
ment !  Now,  he  suffered  it  to  go  unheeded.  Like  a  tiger,  with 
broken  limb,  he  lay  crouching  in  his  lair,  full  of  venom,  but  with- 
out the  power  to  spring  upon  his  victim.  The  Adelantado  was 
sinking  beneath  his  cares,  growing  daily  worse  and  worse,  more 
morbid  of  mind,  more  feeble  of  body.  His  ferocity  subsided 
into  melancholy.  A  fever  preyed  upon  his  blood,  and  affected 
without  exciting  his  brain.  His  physician  at  length  despaired. 
He  himself  had  despaired  some  time  before.  But  the  doom  was, 
as  yet,  withheld  from  his  people. 

Meanwhile,  the  work  of  the  brigantines  was  rapidly  pressing 
forward,  under  the  eager  anxieties  of  the  Spaniards  to  leave  the 
inhospitable  territories  of  the  Apalachian.  While  companies 
hewed  timber,  others  gathered  rosin  from  the  trees  ;  others  again 
wove  ropes  and  wrought  cordage  out:  of  vines  and  mosses ;  a 
third  division  was  employed  for  foraging ;  while  a  fourth  was 
kept  in  hand,  vigilant  and  ready,  for  the  protection  of  the  camp. 
So  long  as  De  Soto,  himself,  could  give  orders,  or  take  any  in- 
terest in  the  business  of  the  garrison,  its  vigilance  was  never  once 
permitted  to  relax.  Guachoya  was  not,  like  Mauvila,  a  fortified 


518  VASCOXSELOS. 

town,  and  the  scattered  dwellings  of  the  place,  required  to  be  well 
watched.  De  Soto,  to  his  usual  habits  of  precaution,  had,  of  late, 
adopted  others  of  an  extreme  sort,  betraying  a  morbid  appre- 
hension of  danger.  His  sentinels  were  doubled;  each  night  his 
cavalry  mounted  guard  in  the  suburbs  of  the  village,  bridle  in 
hand,  and  ready  for  the  sally  or  defence.  A  patrol  of  troops 
alternated,  during  the  night,  between  the  several  stations ; 
while,  along  the  river,  cross-bowmen  in  canoes  kept  vigilant 
watch  upon  all  approaches  from  the  opposite  shores. 

But  this  vigilance  was  observed  only  while  De  Soto  was  him- 
self able  to  assert  his  authority.  With  his  increasing  .illness,  all 
this  organization  fell  to  pieces.  The  extra  sentinels  were  dis- 
pensed with ;  the  cavalry  found  it  hard  to  mount  guard  during  the 
night,  when  they  had  probably  been  on  aforay  all  day;  the  troopers 
finding  there  were  no  alarms,  gave  up  patrolling ;  the  cross-bow- 
men fell  asleep  in  the  canoes.  The  Spaniards  were  now  stead- 
fast only  in  the  labor  of  building  their  brigantines ;  and  all  duties 
that  seemed  to  interfere  with  the  prosecution  of  this  work,  were, 
either  in  part,  or  entirely  foregone.  Gradually,  as  the  heats  of 
summer  began  to  prevail,  all  toils  in  the  sun  were  relaxed.  The 
forbearance  of'  the  red  men,  for  several  weeks,  had  persuaded  the 
Spaniards  that  they  had  endured  the  worst  of  their  dangers  from 
this  source.  They  little  knew  hew  much  of  this  forbearance  they 
owed  to  that  person,  who  had  grown  into  the  embodied  Fate 
of  their  great  leader ;  and  to  whose  agency,  in  especial,  he  as- 
cribed the  defeat  of  his  enterprise  and  the  destruction  of  his  for- 
tunes. 

Philip  de  Vasconselos — the  Cassique  Istalana, — who  had  now 
the  entire  charge  of  the  forces  of  Tuscaluza  on  the  Mississippi — 
seeing  how  the  Spaniards  were  engaged  in  the  construction  of 
their  brigantines,  readily  divined  their  object.  He  had  no  motive 
to  prevent  their  departure,  and,  consequently  no  desire  to  em- 
barrass them  in  their  progress.  Still,  there  was  one  hostile  fowl- 
ing, the  gratification  of  which  he  had  not  enjoyed.  His  revenge 
was  incomplete.  Could  he  have  separated  the?  Spaniards  from 
their  Captain — could  he  have  struck  at  him — him  and  another — 
there  had  been  nothing  left  him  to  desire  !  He  well  knew  that 
through  him  De  Soto  had  been  baffled — that  he  was  a  subdued 
and  broken-hearted  man  ;  but  it  must  be  confessed  that  he  still 
yearned  for  the  opportunity  to  bring  the  long  issue  between 
them,  to  the  final  settlement  of  blood  !  This  was  the  black  spot 
in  the  soul  of  the  Portuguese  Cavalier. 

It  was  a  warm  and  sunny  afternoon  of  summer.  The  Span- 
iards might  be  seen  in  groups  along  the  shore,  strolling  through 


CRY  OF  VENGEANCE.  519 

the  camp,  or  fishing  along  the  river  in  canoes.  They  little  sus- 
pected the  near  neighborhood  of  the  mysterious  warrior,  who  could 
manage  the  war  horse  as  bravely  as  themselves.  He  occupied 
a  close  fortress  of  forest  in  the  immediate  proximity  of  the  cai.ip. 
A  bend  of  the  river  at  Guachoya,  somewhat  isolated  the  spot.  It 
was  a  sort  of  promontory.  An  arm  of  the  river  penetrated,  to 
some  distance,  in  the  rear  of  the  village.  This  was  thickly  shroud- 
ed with  canes,  and  the  dense  thickets  natural  to  a  swamp  precinct. 

Here  Istalana  found  shelter  with  a  select  body  of  his  warriors. 
'Here  he  kept  sleepless  watch  upon  the  movements  of  the  unsus- 
pecting Spaniards.  With  canoes  always  at  hand,  he  crossed  from 
side  to  side  at  pleasure ;  and  was  thus  enabled  to  change  the  place 
of  surveillance  whenever  he  thought  proper  to  do  so.  He  now 
harbors  in  the  shadow  of  great  trees  which  have  pressed  closely  to 
the  banks  of  the  river,  their  boughs  hanging  over  and  dipping  into 
the  mighty  stream.  Here,  in  the  great  shadows,  Istalana  lies  at 
length  along  the  slope  ;  and  the  Princess  Co^alla  sits  beside  him  ; 
and  the  page  Juan  leans  sadly  against  a  gigantic  cotton-wood  tree 
in  the  rear,  and  looks  gloomily  upon  the  pair  before  him  ! 

Vasconselos  has  been  for  some  time  silent, — deep  in  thought. 
He  has  occasionally  answered,  but  in  monosyllables  only,  to  the 
questions  of  Co§alla.  She  has  been  very  curious  about  that  world 
beyond  the  waters,  which  could  send  forth,  without  feeling  his 
loss,  such  a  noble  creature  as  the  warrior  whom  she  now  boldly  calls 
her  own  !  Juan  has  been  listening  with  heedful  and  curious  ear 
also  ;  but  with  growing  sullenness  of  aspect.  Suddenly  Vasconse- 
los rises.  He  approaches  Juan,  and,  speaking  rather  in  the  man- 
ner of  one  who  soliloquizes  than  asks  a  question,  remarks  : 

"  Verily  there  is  one  thing  that  troubles  me.  I  have  striven 
in  vain  to  encounter  one  bitter  enemy,  one  foul  spirit,  in  that 
Spanish  host ;  and  always  in  vain  !  I  have  watched  for  him 
whenever  they  have  been  upon  the  march.  1  have  sought  for 
him  through  all  the  ranks  of  battle ;  yet  never,  since  the  fearful 
hour  when  his  bitter  malice  wrought  my  disgrace,  have  I  been 
able  to  see  his  accursed  visage,  or  bring  him  within  the  stroke  of 
my  weapon  !  Yet  are  his  colors  still  visible  among  yonder 
people.  Still  do  I  see  his  banneret  waving  aloft,  when  they  are 
upon  the  march,  and  I  trow  he  hath  never  left  the  expedition. 
Were  he  to  escape  me  now,  I  should  feel  as  if  nothing  had  been 
done  for  my  own  revenge  ; — nothing  for  the  repair  of  his  brutal 
wrong  to  one, — but  no,  I  must  not  speak  of  her !" 

"  Of  whom  does  the  Senor  speak  !"  demanded  Juan.  "What 
bitter  enemy  is  this  ?" 

"  Of  one,  boy,  of  whom  we  have  both  had  frequent  cause  of 


520  VASCOSTSELOS.  * 

anger  and  suspicion.  Don  Balthazar  de  Alvaro !  Have  you 
seen  ought  of  kirn  since  we  have  followed  the  fortunes  of  the 
red  men '?" 

"  Had  I  known,  my  Lord,  that  such  had  been  thy  quest,  in  es- 
pecial, I  had  spared  thee  much  search  and  unnecessary  peril. 
The  Senor  Balthazar  was  slain  the  very  night  upon  which  1  fled, 
in  search  of  thee,  from  the  camp  at  Chiaha." 

"  Ha  !  slain  !  slain  ! — and  why  did'st  thou  tell  me  nothing  of 
this?" 

"  The  Senor  will  remember  how  little  hath  been  said  between 
us,  safe  from  other  ears,  since  that  time." 

And  the  page  looked  gloomily  in  the  direction  of  Cogalla. 
Verily,  the  page  had  been  suffered  but  few  opportunities  to  com- 
mune with  his  master. 

"  And  wherefore  thy  reserve  of  speech  in  the  hearing  of  the 
Princess  1  She  hath  no  reserves  from  us.  She  is  faithful,  boy  ! 
•what  hadst  thou  to  fear  ?" 

"  Fear,  Senor !" 

The  words  and  manner  were  those  of  one  who  would  rather 
say — 

"  What  had  I  not  to  fear  ?" 

"  Ay,  fear !  But  speak,  Juan,  and  tell  me  how  the  villain 
perished !  Thou  sayst  the  very  night  when  thou  hadst  that 
perilous  and  maddening  ride  in  search  of  me  ?" 

"  Even  then  Senor  ;  that  very  night !" 

"  And  how  ? — was  it  in  sudden  strife  with  the  red  men,  that  he 
perished  ?" 

"  No,  Senor." 

"  Well  1" 

"  He  died  of  dagger  stroke,  Sefior, — dagger  stroke  from  some 
unknown  hand !" 

"  Ha !  dagger  stroke,  and  from  unknown  hand  !  Speak,  boy, 
tell  me  all  that  thou  knowst.  Where  did  this  hap  ?  and  how 
knowst  thou  that  he  who  gave  the  blow  was  unknown  ]  tell  me 
that !" 

The  lips  of  the  page  quivered.  He  cast  his  eyes  upon  the 
ground.  He  was  silent.  Thronging  memories  and  violent 
emotions  seem  to  confound  his  speech,  and  to  shake  his  frame. 
Philip  beheld  his  emotion,  and  a  new  light  seemed  to  gather 
before  his  senses. 

"  What  troubles  thee,  Juan  ?  What  hadst  thou  to  do  in  this 
matter  ?  Ha  !  the  night  thou  fledst ;  that  fearful  flight  of  thine  ! 
Speak,  boy,  tell  me  where  was  the  blow  given ;  where  did  Bal- 
thazar de  Alvaro  fall  ?" 


STILL  ANOTHER  VICTIM.  521 

It  required  a  great  effort  of  the  page  to  articulate  the  answer. 

"  It  was  in  the  chamber  of  thy  own  lodge,  Seftor,  that  Don 
Balthazar  was  slain." 

"  And  thou  wert  there — present — and  beheldst  it  all !  Boy, 
boy  !  was  it  thy  hand  that  struck  the  blow  at  the  heart  of  mine 
enemy  ?" 

The  boy  nodded  the  answer  that  he  could  not  speak. 

"  What !  then  thou  wast  my  avenger  on  that  base  and  brutal 
wretch !" 

"  And  mine  own  too !"  was  the  half  muttered  sentence  of  the 
page.  But  Philip  did  not  hear.  He  caught  the  boy  in  his  em- 
brace. 

"  I  thank  thee,  boy  ;  next  to  mine  own,  it  was  perhaps  most 
proper  for  thy  hand  to  do  the  deed  !  Yet  would  it  had  been 
mine  own  !  Enough  !  I  must  think  no  more  of  him.  Then  is 
this  no  more  a  duty  in  my  thought !" 

He  released  Juan  from  his  embrace  as  he  felt  the  hand  of 
Co^alla  upon  his  shoulder,  and  heard  her  voice  in  soft  murmurs 
in  his  ears. 

"  Philip — is  Philip  angry  with  Coc,alla !" 

Juan  broke  away  from  the  group  at  this  moment,  and  buried 
himself  in  the  thicket,  with  a  heart  quite  too  full  for  speech. 

"  Philip !  Philip !"  the  boy  murmured  ever  as  he  fled  from 
sight. 

"  One  yet  remains !"  quoth  Philip  de  Vasconselos  to  himself. 
"  One  yet  remains  !  There  is  a  mystery  here !  I  see  him  not; 
Nuno  de  Tobar  hath  crossed  the  river  with  his  lances  :  Andres, 
my  brother,  hath  gone  above  with  his  company.  Who  is  now  in 
command  ]  De  Soto  doth  not  show  himself.  He  must  not  es- 
cape me  also  !  No  arm  shall  deal  with  him  but  mine  !  Yet  have 
1  resolved  not  to  set  upon  the  Spaniards  again.  My  vengeance 
now  must  light  upon  the  only  proper  head.  Never  must  he  re- 
turn to  Cuba;  though  well  I  know  that  it  will  prove  to  him  a 
pang  worse  than  any  death  I  can  give,  to  have  the  eyes  of  Cuba 
set  upon  him  now ; — now,  when  all  his  hopes  are  baffled,  when 
his  pride  is  humbled,  his  fortune  lost,  his  honor  gone  forever. 
Oh  !  I  have  tasted  of  the  bitter-sweet  of  vengeance  ;  but  it  is  not 
enough !  Hernan  De  Soto,  I  tell  thee,  it  is  not  enough !  Thy 
blood  or  mine,  I  tell  thee !" 

He  shook  his  hand  threateningly  towards  the  Spanish  camp, 
then  strode  towards  the  edge  of  the  creek  which  divided  him 
from  the  lodges  of  Guachoya.  Here  he  leapt  into  a  canoe 
having  a  single  paddle.  He  was  seen  by  several  of  the  red  men 


522  VASCONSELOS. 

as  he  went ;  Juan  also  saw  and  followed  him.  He  rowed  him- 
self  rapidly  across  the  creek,  and  stood  upon  the  opposite  Lank, 
at  no  great  distance  from  the  line  of  lodges  which  the  Spaniards 
occupied. 

All  was  quiet  in  the  encampment.  Groups  of  the  soldiers  and 
workmen  could  be  seen  in  the  distance,  along  the  banks  of  the 
river.  An  occasional  figure  wound  his  way  along  the  public 
thoroughfares.  The  approach  to  the  cabins  was  partly  covered 
by  trees :  but  beneath  them  not  a  single  sentinel  could  be  seen. 
Philip  eagerly  pushed  forward,  but  with  the  subtle  stealthiness  of 
the  red  man,  and  taking  care  always  to  cover  his  person  from 
sight.  How  was  the  page,  Juan,  astonished,  when,  crossing  the 
creek  as  rapidly  as  he  could  after  his  lord,  and  ascending  also  to 
the  level  of  the  high  ground  leading  to  the  Spanish  camp,  he 
beheld  the  Knight  entering  one  of  the  lodges  of  the  enemy  ! 

At  that  moment,  he  was  called  to  by  name  from  some  one  in 
the  rear.  He  looked  back.  Coca! la  had  crossed  also  ;  bow  and 
arrow  in  hand,  and  her  face  and  voice  equally  declaring  her 
alarm.  She  was  followed  by  several  well  manned  canoes.  Very 
hateful  was  the  beautiful  and  loving  Cocalla  in  the  eyes  of  the 
page.  He  never  answered  her  call,  but,  as  if  vexed  by  her  pres- 
ence and  pursuit,  he  too  pushed  forward,  in  the  direction  which 
his  lord  had  taken,  seeming  quite  reckless  of  the  peril  which  he 
ran. 

Hernan  De  Soto,  a  mere  skeleton  of  himself,  lay  weak,  ema- 
ciated, weary  of  life,  upon  his  bed  of  death  !  He  was  alone — he 
had  been  left  to  sleep  by  his  attendants  who  had  withdrawn 
to  an  outer  apartment.  The  building  was  one  of  those  great 
lodges  of  the  red  men,  which  were  capable  upon  occasion  of 
holding  a  thousand  men.  It  had  been  divided  by  the  Spaniards 
into  several  compartments  by  the  employment  of  quilted  stuffs, 
hides  of  wild  beasts,  and  of  their  own  horses,  and  mattings 
wrought  by  Indian  art  from  native  grasses  and  the  bright  yellow 
reeds  which  grew  along  the  banks,  woven  together  with  wild 
oziers  which  were  every  where  found  in  great  abundance.  The 
couch  of  De  Soto  was  prepared  of  like  materials,  over  which 
soft  dry  rushes  were  strewn  in  sufficient  quantity.  The  lodges, 
thus  divided,  as  we  have  described,  afforded  several  capacious 
chamber's  ;  the  best  of  which,  fronting  the  south  west,  was  occu- 
pied by  De  Soto,  but  having  in  front  of  it  a  verandah  which  had 
been  carefully  enclosed  with  vines  and  mats,  in  order  to  the  ex- 
elusion  of  the  fierce  glare  of  the  sunshine.  In  this  verandah,  lay 
drowsing  a  group  of  his  attendants ;  others  were  wont  to  occupy 


THE   FATE  IN  THE  CAMP.  523 

the  chamber  immediately  adjoining,  which  lay  east  of  that  of  De 
Soto,  while  one  upon  the  north,  was  usually  confided  to  his  body 
guard,  a  corps  now  reduced  to  half  a  dozen  men.  These,  the 
better  to  prevent  the  disturbance  of  the  Chieftain's  slumbers,  had 
been  commanded  to  leave  vacant  this  northern  chamber,  and  re- 
tire to  the  verandah  beyond  it.  Here  they  usually  kept  watch. 
But,  after  a  little  while,  it  was  found  that  when  they  were  not 
drowsing  in  the  verandah,  they  were  at  play  in  the  court  without. 
Here  they  lay  upon  the  long  grasses,  and,  spreading  a  cloak  or  skin, 
with  the  smooth  side  upward,  they  rolled  the  dice,  to  the  perpet- 
ual change,  equally  of  mood  and  fortune.  To  pass  from  court  to 
court,  from  the  north  to  the  south,  was  a  next  and  natural  transi- 
tion ;  and  in  the  languid  influence  of  the  climate,  and  in  the  utter 
freedom  for  some  weeks  from  all  alarm,  the  Spaniards  relaxed  all 
their  vigilance,  and  soon — he  himself  totally  unconscious — the 
dying  Adelantado  grew  to  be  even  less  guarded  than  the  camp 
itself. 

Such  was  the  condition  of  the  scene  the  evening  when  we  find 
Philip  de  Vasconselos  making  his  entrance  into  it  unattended — 
without  shows  or  sounds  of  war — without  followers;  himself 
armed  only  with  battle-axe  and  dagger.  Nothing,  of  course, 
could  take  place  within  the  Spanish  encampment,  which  was  not 
well  known  to  the  vigilant  red  men  who  watched  it  sleeplessly  by 
day  and  night.  The  very  lodgings  of  the  several  Spanish  captains 
had  all  been  discovered  by  their  spies.  The  lodge  which  De  Soto 
occupied,  was,  from  its  greater  size  and  superior  structure — it 
having  been  that  of  the  Cassique  of  Guachoya — necessarily  indi- 
cated as  the  one  most  proper  for  the  Spanish  adelantado.  Vas- 
conselos approached  it  with  direct  aim  and  undeviating  footstep. 
Saving  the  natural  caution  which  he  observed,  covering  himself 
with  tree  or  shruo,  wherever  he  could  employ  them  while  mak- 
ing his  approach, — he  went  not  once  aside  from  the  single  object. 
The  circumstances  all  favored  his  enterprise.  The  guards  were 
withdrawn.  They  might  be  seen  in  the  shadows  of  the  trees  in 
the  court  yard,  on  the  South  and  West.  Some  loitered  in  the 
Eastern  court,  others  lay  along  the  banks  of  the  river,  looking  to 
the  south-west.  The  north  and  north-west  showed  no  sign  of 
human  being.  Yet  there,  in  the  woods  of  the  swamp  opposite, 
lay  hosts  of  the  red  men  of  the  Apalachian.  It  was  from  this 
quarter  that  Istalana  stole  forward  to  the  camp.  In  his  course, 
he  caught  frequent  glimpses  of  the  drowsy  Spaniards.  There 
were  groups  at  cards  and  dice.  A  score  of  them  lay  in  the 
shadows  of  the  brigantines  which  they  had  been  working  upon 
during  the  cooler  portions  of  the  day.  Now  they  slept,  or 


524  VASCONSELOS. 

gamed,  or  wandered  in  the  shady  thickets — they  did  anything 
but  watch.  They  left  this  duty  to  the  foragers,  who,  under 
several  of  the  most  active  knights,  usually  made  a  daily  progress 
over  a  circuit  of  ten  or  fifteen  miles  along  the  higher  country,  and, 
thus  scouring  it  daily,  persuaded  themselves  that  they  kept  the 
danger  at  a  distance.  It  would  have  been  easy  to  have  darted  JK 
upon  the  camp,  thus  loosely  guarded,  destroyed  the  growth  of 
the  brigan tines,  and  cut  off,  at  one  fell  swoop,  the  entire  garrison, 
with  its  once  brilliant  captain.  But  the  soul  of  Philip  de  Vascon- 
selos,  even  while  it  nursed  fondly  the  passion  for  a  great  revenge, 
was  not  prepared  to  fall  upon  the  people  with  whom  he  had  so 
long  marched  as  a  companion.  He  found  it  easy  to  persuade  the 
Great  King  to  consent  to  the  wiser  policy  of  suffering  the  Spaniards 
to  depart,  rather  than  to  risk  the  lives  of  thousands  more  of  the 
red  men,  in  the  effort  at  'their  violent  extermination  by  battle. 
Tuscaluza  had  lost  so  many  of  his  bravest  warriors  already,  that 
he  listened  to  the  counsel  thus  given  him,  and  the  war,  thence- 
forth, was  conducted  at  the  discretion  of  Istalana. 

But  Philip  de  Vasconselos  demanded  his  one  victim.  Had  he 
been  able  to  see  Hernan  de  Soto,  in  field  or  camp,  he  might  have 
curbed  his  passion  until  the  opportunity  should  offer  of  cutting 
him  off  when  but  few  troops  should  be  engaged  on  either  side. 
Not  seeing  him  for  so  long  a  space,  he  began  to  apprehend  that 
he,  too,  might  have  fallen  in  battle,  or  by  disease,  and  had  been 
buried  secretly  by  his  followers,  who  naturally  dreaded  lest  the 
red  men  should  wreak  their  savage  fury  on  his  remains,  should 
they  be  discovered.  Curious  to  ascertain  the  truth,  eager  to 
pacify  his  great  revenge,  Vasconselos  could  no  longer  forbear  the 
inquiry,  though  urged  at  the  peril  of  his  own  life  and  liberty. 

Circumstances,  as  we  have  shown,  favored  his  adventure. 
There  were  no  guards  in  attendance ;  there  was  no  watch  about 
the  lodge  of  De  Soto,  and  though  certain  esquires  occupied  the 
closed  verandah  upon  the  south-west,  whom  Philip  could  not  see, 
and  whose  presence  he  did  not  suspect,  yet  were  these  as  little 
prepared  for  danger,  or  assault,  as  were  the  several  groups  that 
lay  in  the  shadows  of  the  trees,  and  brigantines,  or  who  loitered 
among  the  broad  avenues  of  the  woods.  The  greater  body  of 
the  Spaniards  in  camp,  were  distributed  among  the  several 
lodges,  either  gaming,  or  enjoying  that  repose  which  the  heats  of 
the  season  began  to  render  exceedingly  grateful,  after  several 
hours  of  labor  in  the  sun.  A  deep  silence  overspread  the  dwell- 
ing in  which  De  Soto  was  sighing  away  his  life,  when  Vasconselos 
passed  between  its  portals.  He  had  been  utterly  unseen.  He 
paused  in  the  ante-chamber,  on  the  northern  side  of  the  building, 


THE   FATE  AND  ITS  VICTIM.  525 

and  listened.  Sounds,  as  of  a  slight  moaning,  came  to  him  from 
the  inner  apartment.  He  drew  aside  the  great  bear-skin  which 
constituted  the  door-way,  and  advanced  silently  within  the  dim 
shadows  of  the  room.  His  moccasined  footstep  gave  forth  no 
sound.  The  moaning  continued.  De  Soto  slept  imperfectly, — 
the  sleep  of  exhaustion,  and  of  approaching  death. 

Philip  approached  his  bed-side,  and  gazed  upon  the  bleached 
and  bloodless  features  of  him  whom  he  had  seen  in  his  hour  of 
pride  and  hope,— exulting  in  all  the  vigor  of  manhood, — and  in 
the  indulgence  of  the  most  exulting  hope,  and  the  most  eagle-eyed 
ambition.  His  hand  grasped  the  battle-axe,  but  the  spectacle 
disarmed  his  rage.  He  was  chilled  by  the  survey.  For  several 
moments,  he  gazed  in  silence  upon  the  foe,  whom  he  had  so  long 
destined  as  the  one  victim  whose  death  alooe  could  pacify  his 
rage.  He  now  scarcely  felt  this  emotion. 

"And  this  then,"  he  murmured  to  himself — "  this  is  the  brill- 
iant cavalier,  the  haughty  warrior,  the  proud  chieftain,  the  inso- 
lent and  ambitious  Castilian.  This  is  the  man  by  whose  decree  I 
was  dishonored — made  to  face  and  to  endure  a  terror  worse  than 
death — destroyed  in  hope — degraded  from  position,  dishonored  in 
the  sight  of  man  forever.  Verily,  I  would  give  the  life  that  I  have 
passed  when  life  was  a  joy  and  every  emotion  promised  delight  and 
triumph, — could  I  once  more  behold  thee,  Hernan  de  Soto, — as 
I  have  seen  thee  so  oft, — as  thou  look'dst  on  that  terrible  day, 
when  thy  doom  gave  my  honor  to  disgrace,  and  left  me  to  the 
horrors  of  a  beast's  death  in  the  wilderness  of  the  Apalachian  !" 

The  lips  of  the  dying  man  parted,  even  as  he  slept,  speaking  in 
feeble  accents. 

"  Philip  de  Vasconselos,"  he  murmured  faintly,  but  still  in- 
telligibly, "give  me  back  my  forces.  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  thou 
hast  robbed  me  of  all  my  fame.  Thou  hast  destroyed  me  for- 
ever, in  hope  and  fortune.  Oh  !  that  I  had  thee  here,  and  no  arm 
to  interpose  between  us,  with  weapon  bared,  and  thy  life  and 
mine  upon  the  issue !" 

"  Ha  !  he  invokes  me  in  his  dream  !" 

"Thou  art  my  Fate!"  murmured  the  sleeper.  "Thou  hast 
robbed  me  of  all !  Oh !  that  I  could  have  thee  in  mine  eyes 
once  more,  and  avenge  upon  thee  the  slaughter  of  my  soldiers." 

'"  Open  thine  eyes,  Hernan  de  Soto  !"  cried  Vasconselos — 
"  Behold !  I  am  with  thee — The  Fate  thou  hast  summoned. 
Would  to  Heaven  thou  wert  as  fit  and  ready  for  the  strife  as  I." 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  the  skinny  arm  of  the  sleeper  as  he  spoke, 
and  the  eyes  of  the  dying  chief  opened  upon  him.  Very  glassy 
was  the  gaze  they  sent  forth ;  for  a  while,  very  meaningless  and 


526  VASCONSELOS. 

uncertain.  But,  as  the  light  of  consciousness  gradually  dawned 
upon  his  mind,  the  gaze  quickened  with  intelligence. 

"  Ha  !"  he  said — "  I  dream  !    1  do  not  see  !" 

"  Thou  dost  see,  Hernan  de  Soto  !  thou  dost  not  dream.  The 
Fate  thou  hast  challenged  is  beside  thee." 

"  Ha !  then  !  It  is  true.  Thou  art  here.  Ah  !  wilt  thou  strike 
when  I  have  no  weapon.  Let  me  but  prepare  for  thee,  Philip 
de  Vasconselos,  by  the  Holy  Virgin,  thou  shalt  see  what  is  the 
prowess  of  a  true  man,  against  the  bosom  of  the  renegade  and 
traitor !" 

And  the  feeble  chieftain  lifted  his  hand  and  pointed  to  his 
armor  hanging  against  the  wall,  and  motioned  as  if  he  would 
have  risen  ;  but  he  sank  back  feebly  and  shut  his  eyes,  mur- 
muring— 

"  Be  it  as  thou  wilt !  strike,  if  ihou  hast  the  heart  for  it !  I 
have  no  prayer  to  offer  to  thee,  traitor  as  thou  art." 

"  That  word  alone  should  doom  thee  to  sudden  blow,  Her- 
nan de  Soto,"  answered  the  Knight  with  stern  emphasis, 
"  but  I  will  not  strike  thee.  I  will  lay  no  hand  upon  thee  now 
in  anger.  There  is  a  more  powerful  grasp  upon  thee  than  any  J 
can  lay.  Thou  art  in  the  hands  of  the  great  master  of  life,  and 
I  will  do  nothing  more  against  thee.  Yet,  Heaven  be  my  witness, 
de  Soto,  if  I  would  not  gladly  help  .thee  to  thy  armor,  and  see 
thee  once  more  put  on  all  thy  strength,  while  I  stood  before 
thee,  with  battle-axe,  armed  as  now,  and  thou  with  any  weapon 
or  armor  that  thou  wouldst,  with  none  to  come  between  us. 
and  thy  life  and  mine  decreed  to  hang  upon  the  justice  of  our 
cause.  Traitor!  Who  made  me  a  traitor,  if  I  be  one?  Who 
robbed  me  of  my  rights,  my  good  name,  my  honors  and  my 
manhood1?  Who  drove  me  into  the  arms  of  the  red  men, — who 
despoiled  me  of  my  abode,  and  security  among  a  Christian 
people  ?  Who  but  thou  1  and  it  is  thou  that  darest  now,  with 
the  hand  of  death  upon  thee,  and  the  dread  of  eternal  judgment 
staring  thee  in  the  face —  thou,  to  call  me  traitor  !  It  is  thou,  I 
tell  thee,  Hernan  de  Soto,  that  art  the  traitor  and  the  criminal  ! 
Thou  that  hast  dishonored  the  noble  order  of  knighthood  by 
dishonest  judgment ;  thou  that  didst  debase  thee  from  the  rank 
of  the  gentle  and  the  noble,  in  becoming  the  tool  and  the  slave 
of  the  cunning  criminal,  who  warped  thee  to  his  villanous  pur- 
pose, making  of  thy  soul  a  thing  even  fouler  than  his  own  !" 

"  Ha !  shall  I  submit  to  this  insolence !"  answered  De  Soto  in 
louder  accents.  His  soul,  goaded  by  the  speech  of  Vasconselos 
became  aroused  for  the  moment.  There  was  a  sudden  lighting 


A  DIGS.  527 

• 

up  of  the  fires  in  his  eye  and  bosom.     Nature,  nei  ved  by  indig- 
nation, put  on  the  appearance  of  sudden  strength. 

"Shall  I  listen  to  this  foul-mouthed  renegade!"  he  exclaimed 
in  still  louder  accents ;  and,  with  the  words,  half  rising  from  his 
couch,  he  stretched  his  arm  out  suddenly,  and  with  unexpected 
vigor,  the  last  fierce  energetic  action  of  expiring  nature,  he 
grasped  the  throat  of  Vasconselos,  crying  aloud  the  while — 

'"  What,  ho !  without  there !  Guards,  soldiers,  Castilians, 
seize  on  the  traitor.  Help,  that  I  may  secure  this  renegade."' 

Vasconselos  shook  off'  his  grasp  with  ease,  and  the  dying 
Adelantado  sank  back  upon  the  couch.  The  fire  was  exhausted 
in  the  single  expiring  blaze.  The  momentary  ebullition  was 
over.  The  effort  was  fatal.  His  eyes  were  suddenly  glazed,  the 
spasmodic  gasping  declared  the  agonies  of  death. 

"  A  Dios !"  exclaimed  Vasconselos,  pointing  upward.  De 
Soto  lay  before  him  a  corse. 

For  a  moment,  the  Portugese  cavalier  contemplated  the  rigid 
features  of  his  enemy — the  unconscious  glare  of  his  widely 
staring  eyes.  But,  suddenly,  he  started,  baltle-axe  in  his  grasp, 
and  strode  across  the  chamber.  There  was  a  noise  of  armor  in  the 
southern  verandah.  There  was  heard  the  tread  of  heavy  and 
hurrying  feet  in  the  chamber  whioh  lay  between.  De  Soto's 
dving  summons  had  been  heard  by  his  drowsing  attendants,  ami 
they  were  approaching.  Vasconselos  lifted  the  bearskin,  closing 
the  entrance  from  the  northern  chamber,  and  passed  through, 
just  as  a  couple  of  the  squires  of  De  Soto  entered  from  the 
opposite  chamber.  He  passed  without  interruption  through  tin.-. 
northern  apartments,  through  the  verandah  unseen,  gained  the 
court,  and  sped  with  swift  foot-steps,  but  only  in  a  walk,  towards 
the  forest  cover  whence  he  emerged.  Suddenly,  a  wild  cry,  a 
shout  of  mixed  fury  and  horror,  was  heard  to  arise  behind  him. 
He  looked  backward  :  a  group  of  Spaniards  was  seen  to  rush 
from  the  quarters  of  De  Soto.  They  cried  to  other  groups  ia 
the  squares,  and,  as  they  shouted  their  anger  and  alarm,  the  in- 
stinctive defiance  in  the  heart  of  Vasconselos,  prompted  the 
fierce  war-whoop  with  which  he  replied  to  them  in  the  manner 
of  the  red  men. 

There  was  pursuit ;  but  Vasconselos  did  not  increase  his  speed. 
His  soul  was  at  its  full  stature,  and  he  disdained  to  have  re- 
course fqr  safety  to  the  eager  paces  of  the  fugitive.  He  strode 
onward  with  the  gait  of  one  who  would  rather  welcome  than 
escape  the  danger.  Nor  did  he  need  to  hasten,  unless  to  escape 
the  bolt  or  the  shot  of  his  pursuer.  He  was  so  fairly  beyond 
them  that  they  could  not  have  made  him  captive ;  could  not  hava 


528  VASCOISTSELOS.      > 

crossed  weapon  with  his  own ;  and  the  river  swamp  was  nigh,  on 
the  edge  of  which  lay  his  canoe. 

At  that  moment,  the  voice  of  Juan  was  heard  behind  him,  cry- 
ing  aloud, 

"  Hasten,  Senor  Philip — hasten  my  lord,  they  prepare  to 
shoot." 

He  turned  with  surprise,  in  the  direction  whence  the  sounds 
arose,  much  wondering  to  perceive  the  boy  behind  him ;  when, 
even  at  that  instant,  the  bolt  was  delivered  from  the  cross-bow  of 
one  of  the  Spaniards,  and  he  beheld  the  boy,  as  he  threw  himself 
directly  upon  his  path.  The  next  instant  he  saw  Juan  roll  over 
upon  the  sward,  with  the  arrow  quivering  in  his  bosom.  The 
boy  had  thrown  off  his  armour  of  escaupil,  as  most  of  the  red 
men  had  done  in  that  warm  season,  and  not  expecting  strife  ;  and 
in  his  jacket  of  thin,  unquilted  cotton,  the  deadly  shaft  had  met 
with  no  resistance. 

With  a  deep  cry  of  sincere  sorrow,  Vasconselos  darted  back- 
ward to  where  the  boy  lay  upon  the  strand.  To  gather  him  up  in 
his  powerful  arms,  and  hurry  with  him  down  the  slope,  to  the 
canoe,  was  the  work  of  a  few  moments  only.  As  he  reached  the 
shore,  he  heard  the  voice  of  Cocjalla,  crying — 

"  Hither,  Philip,  hither  !  Here  is  a  great  canoe."    . 

He  followed  the  sounds,  and  safely  entered  the  canoe  with  his 
speechless  burden.  The  rowers  bent  to  their  task,  the  boat  shot 
through  the  reedy  thicket,  and  had  nearly  reached  the  opposite 
shore,  when  a  crowd  of  Spaniards,  all  armed  with  arquebuse  and 
cross-bow,  appeared  along  the  margin  of  the  shore  which  they 
had  left.  There  were  shots  sent  after  the  fugitives,  bullet  and 
arrow,  but  with  hurried  aim, — they  were  delivered  fruitlessly ; 
and  while  a  thousand  of  the  red  men  answered  with  their  fearful 
whoops,  the  shouts  and  threats  of  the  Spaniards,  the  war  canoe 
of  Coc.alla  shot  safely  into  cover,  in  a  lagune  hidden  from  all 
sight  by  the  dense  thickets  of  its  reedy  shore. 

In  a  green  lodge  by  the  river  side,  they  laid  the  insensible  form 
of  Juan,  the  page,  upon  a  bank  of  rushes ;  and  Philip  de  Vascon- 
selas,  with  a  grievous  sadnesss  at  his  heart — for  he  saw  that  the 
wound  of  the  boy  was  mortal — proceeded  tenderly  to  withdraw 
the  deadly  shaft  from  his  bosom,  where  it  was  deeply  lodged. 
But,  at  the  very  first  effort,  when  it  became  necessary  to  tear 
open  the  vest  of  the  boy,  his  eyes  opened,  and  he  raised  his  hands, 
and  pressed  down  his  garments,  and  murmured  that  they  should 
desist.  But  m  this  effort  he  again  fainted ;  and  while  he  was 
thus  unconscious,  Philip  de  Vasconselos  cut  the  strings  which 
secured  the  jacket  of  the  boy  in  front,  and  lo,  when  he  liad  open- 


THE   SECRET    REVEALED.  529 

ed  the  garment,  the  white  skin  beneath,  and  the  full,  round,  white 
bosom  of  a  woman.  *'  Ha  !  Philip  !"  cried  Cocalla,  who  had  as- 
sisted the  knight  in  his  effort ;  "  ha !  Philip !  it  is  a  daughter  of 
the  pale  faces.  It  is  one  of  your  people.  It  is  a  woman  who  hath 
followed  Philip  to  the  battle." 

And  Philip  greatly  wondered,  as  much  at  his  own  blind  igno- 
rance, which  had  kept  him  so  long  in  darkness,  as  at  the  strange 
revelation,  the  secret  of  which  he  now  comprehended  in  a  moment. 

"  Holy  Maria !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Holy  Maria !"  and  the  eyes 
of  the  page  again  unclosed ;  and  she  now  knew  what  had  been 
done,  and  what  had  been  discovered ;  and  she  sighed  deeply,  and 
the  tears  gathered  into  her  eyes,  and  she  strove  to  cover  them  with 
her  hands.  Then  the  knight  said — 

"  My  poor  Olivia !  is  it  thou  ?" 

And  she  murmured — 

"  Wilt  thou  forgive  me,  Senor  ?" 

"  Forgive  !  what  have  I  to  forgive  ?" 

And  the  child  again  wept,  and  her  sobs  were  long  and  deep ; 
and  while  she  sobbed,  the  knight  tenderly  withdrew  the  barbed 
arrow  from  the  wound ;  and  though  he  strove  to  save  her  from 
pain,  yet  the  agony  was  very  great,  and  again  she  fainted.  But 
the  blood  issued  freely  from  the  wound,  and  when  they  strove  to 
staunch  it,  her  eyes  once  more  opened  to  the  light,  and  she  saw 
that  it  was  Cogalla  who  was  busy  about  her,  to  stay  the  bleeding, 
and  to  bind  up  the  wound ;  and  with  a  sharp  word  she  pushed  her 
away,  and  tore  off  the  bandages.  Then  Philip  interposed,  and  she 
lay  silent,  as  he  strove  to  do  for  her  that  which  she  had  denied 
should  be  done  by  Cogalla.  But  though  the  knight  bound  up  the 
hurt,  and  strove,  with  the  help  of  liniments  and  styptics,  which 
the  red  men  knew  well  how  to  use,  yet  was  all  his  care  in  vain — 
for  the  wound  bled  inwardly,  and  they  soon  beheld  that  the  hurt 
was  mortal,  and  that  the  life  was  fast  ebbing  out  of  the  sweet 
fountain  which  it  had  warmed  with  such  fidelity,  and  made  to 
glow  with  so  much  passion,  and  such  feminine  devotion ;  and  the 
girl  murmured  to  Philip,  speaking  of  Cogalla — 

"  Let  her  go  hence  for  a  while,  Senor.  I  have  that  to  show 
thee,  to  say  to  thee,  which  should  have  no  ears  but  thine  own." 

And  Philip  whispered  Cogalla  away,  and  Olivia  de  Alvaros 
said — 

"  It  is  well.  Now,  Philip,  that  I  am  about  to  lose  thee,  let  me 
tell  thee  how  much  I  love  thee." 

"  Alas !"  he  said,  "  my  poor  Olivia,  it  needs  not.  Know  I  not 
now  !" 

And  she  answered — 
23 


530  VASCONSELOS. 

"  But  them  knowest  not  that  I  am  innocent  of  wrong  doing, 
Philip,  and  this  is  what  I  would  show  thee." 

She  spoke  but  little  more,  but  of  this  she  was  most  eager  to 
speak.  And  she  bade  him  look  into  her  jacket  of  escaupil,  where 
a  packet  had  been  sewn  up,  which  should  teach  him  all  her  cruel 
history ;  how  she  had  been  wronged,  but  how  she  was  innocent ; 
how  she  had  been  dishonored,  but  how  she  was  an  unwilling  and 
unconscious  victim  to  the  base  and  cruel  arts  of  her  brutal  kins- 
man. In  this  packet  thus  delivered,  he  read  the  terrible  history 
of  her  griefs,  even  as  we  have  already  delivered  it.  But  he  did 
not  read  until  she  was  no  more. 

She  died  in  the  arms  of  Philip  ;  but  she  bade  that  Cocalla  should 
turn  away  her  face,  and  leave  the  spot,  ere  the  parting  moment 
came.  Then  she  bade  that  Philip  should  lift  her  from  the  rushes  ; 
and  when  he  did  so,  she  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  laid 
her  head  upon  his  bosom,  and  so  her  pure  and  suffering  spirit  went, 
with  a  sweet  sigh,  and  a  fond  embrace,  the  memory  of  which,  in 
long  years  after,  sweetened  greatly  the  solitude  to  the  heart  of  the 
knight  of  Portugal.  They  buried  her,  in  the  great  solitudes  of  the 
Mississippi,  under  the  shades  of  many  guardian  trees,  and  the  river 
rolls  ever  along  with  a  deep  murmur  near  the  hallowed  spot,  as  if 
it  sang  fond  anthems  for  the  repose  of  a  troubled  soul. 

Midnight,  and  there  was  a  solemn  stir  in  the  Spanish  encamp- 
ment. There  was  a  roll  of  martial  music,  and  the  wail  of  solemn 
voices,  as  they  sang  the  awful  dirge  of  death  over  the  remains  of 
the  once  mighty  Adelantado,  Hernan  de  Soto.  Then,  in  the  deep- 
eningularkness  of  the  night,  they  placed  the  corse  of  the  Adelan- 
tado in  the  core  of  a  green  pine-tree,  which  had  been  hollowed 
out  to  receive  it,  and,  nailing  over  this  a  cover  of  heavy  plank, 
they  towed  it  from  the  shore,  under  an  escort  of  a  hundred  canoes, 
to  the  centre  of  the  river,  and  there,  with  a  solemn  service,  they 
consigned  it  to  a  bed  beneath  the  great  stream,  sinking  it  deeply 
lest  the  avenging  red  men  should  possess  themselves  of  the  corse 
of  him  who  had  wrought  them  so  much  evil  while  he  lived,  and 
wreak  upon  his  unconscious  frame  the  fury  which  possessed  their 
souls  against  him. 

But  Philip  de  Vasconselos,  who  beheld  the  scene,  and  readily 
divined  the  nature  of  the  solemn  service,  would  not  suffer  his  war- 
riors to  disturb  its  .progress ;  and  from  the  banks  of  the  river,  in 
the  darkness  of  the  night,  his  eye  watched,  and  his  soul  brooded 
gloomily  over  the  close  of  De  Soto's  career,  and  he  reflected  upon 
the  strangeness  of  that  ambitious  fortune,  which  should  have  found, 
in  all  its  wild  career,  nothing  so  wonderfnl  as  the  river  which  be- 


COCALLA,   PHILIP,   AND   COFACHIQUI.  5^1 

came  the  burial-place  of  the  hero.  Nor,  when  De  Soto  •was  thus 
consigned  to  his  last  repose,  did  Philip  suffer  that  the  Spaniards 
should  be  troubled  by  his  followers.  He  saw  them  depart  in  their 
brigantines,  following  the  flowings  of  the  Mississippi  in  its  passage 
to  the  sea,  and,  when  one  of  the  vessels  bearing  the  banner  of  his 
brother  Andres  glided  down  the  stream,  beneath  the  bainks  upon 
which  he  stood,  as  it  went  by,  he  cried  audibly — 

"  Farewell  to  thee,  my  brother ;  fare  thee  well,  Andres  de  Vas- 
conselos  ;  farewell  for  ever !" 

And  the  Spaniards  went  from  sight ;  and  in  due  season,  after 
many  strifes  and  trinls,  did  they  reach  their  homes.  But  Philip, 
leading  his  warriors  back  to  the  great  king,  Tuscaluza,  turned 
away  once  more  toward  the  mountains  of  the  Apalachian ;  and 
when  he  had  left  the  territory  of  Tuscaluza,  and  once  more  got 
back  to  that  of  Cofachiqui — and  when  the  warriors  of  Cofachiqui 
once  more  assembled  with  greetings  and  songs  of  welcome  about 
their  princess,  the  well-beloved  Cocalla — then  did  that  noble  crea- 
ture lay  her  hands  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  knight  and  say — 

"  Philip  is  now  the  great  chief,  the  well-beloved  of  the  people 
of  Cofachiqui !" 

And  the  knight  smiled  with  a  sweet  sadness  upon  the  dusky 
princess,  as  they  passed  into  the  great  thickets  leading  to  the  an- 
cient village,  where  the  two  first  met,  on  the  banks  of  the  Savan- 
nah. And  how  the  heart  of  the  woman  gladdened,  when  at  last, 
in  reply  to  her  frequent  murmur  of  the  name  of  Philip,  he  an- 
swered with  that  of  Cogalla ! 


THE     END. 


.- ,'. 


DATE  DUE 


4  19R. 


LITY 


PRINTED  IN  U.S.A. 


mm 


'^m^&fmy^^ 

ifi&y.v  ^&-/;'  ;/.-y. ;,' 


